


The Great Glass Doors

by scrapasassafras (M_hys_a)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - The Hamptons, Angst with a Happy Ending, But mostly jealous Hannibal, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to lovers to enemies to lovers again, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Infidelity, Jealous Hannibal, Jealous Will, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Period-Typical Homophobia, Will POV (But Trust Me Hannibal Is Pining), getting back together fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_hys_a/pseuds/scrapasassafras
Summary: Will and Hannibal meet as children in the wake of the Second World War, and their relationship develops for over a decade before it's thrown into turmoil by the words of Hannibal's Aunt Murasaki. In 1965, Hannibal returns to the Hamptons after two years away, and Will is forced to grapple with his continued feelings for Hannibal while trying to build a life that is separate from him.





	1. A Missing Key

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I had so much fun with my last Hannigram fic that I figured I'd try it again! A few notes about this fic:
> 
> 1) In my previous Hannigram fic I tried very hard to work within the themes and parameters of the show, like Hannibal's cannibalism, Will's grappling with his inner darkness, a wide variety of characters, etc. I am making no attempt to do that with this fic, and am instead allowing myself to write purely indulgent AU melodrama. So, enjoy lol!  
> 2) Hannibal and Will are the same age in this fic - so they are both 9 when they meet in 1948.  
> 3) I had been rolling ideas for mid-century Hamptons Hannigram around in my mind for quite a while, but I was finally inspired to take the plunge by a gifset I saw on Tumblr, the theme of which was "It's never a good idea to go to your ex's wedding." I only browse Tumblr and never post, and I didn't save the link and now I can't find it, so if anyone is able to link it to me in the comments I would be most appreciative!  
> 4) If you feel like listening to some mood music for this fic, the album "Sentimentally Yours" by Patsy Cline is a good choice :). 
> 
> Okay, I think that's it. Thanks for reading, everyone!

  

August 1965

 

Will can feel the sand beneath his back shifting, moving and spreading in time with the snap of Hannibal’s hips against him. He can feel it sifting down the back of his collar and up underneath the hem of his cotton shirt, pressing sharp into his skin, and he wonders if the force of Hannibal’s thrusts and the static of his own desperate longing will create enough electricity to transform the sand to glass. Hannibal’s hands are all over him, his mouth against Will’s ear, and the sickly sweet smell of wine tumbles from his lips with slurred words that Will knows better than to believe.

“I’ve traveled all over the world, trying to forget you,” he murmurs, his voice a throaty husk, “but there is never anyone else. They are all blank faces in a crowd compared to you.”

Will lets out a shaking breath, pressing tingling fingers into the meat of Hannibal’s broad shoulders. He moves his mouth to Hannibal’s collarbone, trailing his tongue down to a toned pectoral and sinking his teeth into golden skin. Hannibal’s hips stutter and he lets out a choked sound, falling onto one forearm and bringing his other hand to circle Will’s cock.

“Wicked, foolish boy,” he whispers, and Will’s head rolls back onto the sand, “to believe that you could separate yourself from me, to act as though you do not belong to me.”

Will’s stomach roils with a combination of anger and hot, piercing arousal, and he clenches his teeth as Hannibal moves his fist in time with his thrusts.

“Tell me you don’t love me, Will,” Hannibal says, his voice wavering, and Will forces himself to meet his gaze. Hannibal’s eyes look red in the shadowed light from the pier, and Will tenses in involuntary pleasure when Hannibal’s cock hits his prostate. “Tell me you don’t love me,” Hannibal repeats, and in lieu of a response Will lifts his hands and cups Hannibal’s face, bringing their lips together in a sloppy press. It’s the first time they’ve kissed in years, and Will knows the effect it will have on Hannibal. Hannibal lets out a thick moan and shudders as he comes, and Will tries to memorize the way his cock feels pulsing inside him. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose, keeping his muscles tense and staving off his own orgasm. He’s already given so much of himself to Hannibal, he’s not going to give him this.

Hannibal draws in a ragged breath and moves his fingers over Will’s cock again, but Will stops him with a quick movement. Hannibal freezes, and he is utterly silent as Will moves away from him. Will slides back on the sand until Hannibal’s cock slips out of him and then he rolls onto his side, reaching for his shorts.

“Will.”

Hannibal’s voice is glacial, and Will does not bother to wonder what is buried beneath all that ice.

“Will.”

Will ignores him, sliding into his shorts and trying to ignore the warm trickle of semen from between his cheeks as he stands.

“Will.”

But Will remains silent, his one and only victory for the night, and Hannibal does not try to stop him when he walks away.

 

 

\---

 

1948

 

Will met Hannibal when he was 9 years old. In 1947, the storms of his father’s alcoholism blew them off the fishing boats of the North Atlantic and into the mire of unemployment and poverty, where they struggled for nearly a year before Robertus Lecter saved them from their destitution.

Lecter was a wealthy, old-fashioned European who still held to the idea that it was his responsibility as Old World nobility to look after the less fortunate in his community, even in the individualistic and altogether foreign land of the New World. He viewed his willingness to hire Beau Graham as just such an act of philanthropy, his small way of carrying on traditions that seemed to be crumbling further and further into dust on the Continent in the years after the Second World War. Lecter had heard the rumors about the inveterate fisherman and, for the sake of the man’s small, sad-eyed son, he offered him a job tending the boats on his summer property in the Hamptons.

It was in truth an act with little risk, and his philanthropy paid him in ample returns. Even the strongest whiskey could not dull Beau Graham’s love of boats, and Lecter’s fleet of sad, languishing old yachts was transformed in a matter of months into a gleaming beacon of luxury and seamanship. Lecter was so pleased with the work Beau Graham had done that he invited him to work for him year-round, living in a small cottage on the property and seeing to the upkeep of the boats, docks, and the beaches that ran along the waterfront of the property. And so Will and his father moved into the cottage and Robertus Lecter returned to Europe for the season, where he stayed for eight months. When he returned, he brought a boy back with him: his nephew.

The boy lived at the mansion for nearly a month before he and Will met. Will had seen him frequently since his arrival, but his father warned him that the boy was very rich and wouldn’t want to have anything to do with Will. Will was a shy boy who stumbled over his words and winced when strangers tried to meet his gaze, so he had no trouble believing his father’s words were Gospel truth. And so he kept his distance, and contented himself with observing, until at last his curiosity got the better of him.

Will was cleaning the shoreline one morning, gathering dead fish and seaweed into a bucket when he saw the Lecter boy make his way through the dunegrass and down towards the beach. He did not move to approach him, but he stared in mute delight as the boy made his way to the water. He was taller than Will and looked far skinnier than he ought to be, the bones of his elbows and ankles sticking out noticeably through his skin. The strands of his ash-blond hair glinted in the sunlight as he stared out at the waves and Will thought he must be the most beautiful thing in the world. He was so entranced by the sight that he forgot what his father had told him, and his feet propelled him closer to the boy without his being consciously aware of it. The boy turned to face him at the sound of the sand shifting, and it was only when their eyes met that Will considered the reality of the situation: this boy was pristine in his pressed white shirt and khaki shorts, his skin smooth and clean, while Will was coated with sweat and sand and perfumed with the stench of the dead fish he’d been gathering on the beach. He felt his own undesirability like a sharp pain in the chest, his arms tightening around the bucket, and he moved to flee until the boy spoke.

“I don’t mind, about the smell,” he said, his voice scratchy and uneven, and Will flushed.

“My dad said you wouldn’t want to talk to me,” he blurted, and the boy’s brows creased.

“Your father was wrong,” he said, his voice still unsteady.

“What’s your name?” Will asked nervously, his gaze skittering away from the boy’s eyes. They were brown, and looked like someone had flecked bits of cinnamon and golden butter into them. Will thought they were beautiful.

“Hannibal,” the boy responded. “And yours?”

“Will,” Will stuttered. “My name’s Will.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Will?”

“No,” Will answered. “Do you?” The boy’s face creased, and he looked back out over the water.

“Not anymore,” he said.

“My dad says you lived through the war,” Will blurted out before he could stop himself. “That the Germans took over your house. Is that true?”

“Yes,” the boy said simply, and Will let out a breath.

“What happened to your family?” he asked.

“They died.”

“Where did you go?”

“To an orphanage.”

“Do you think you’ll ever go back there? To your home?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Will shifted on his feet and moved his gaze away from the still figure of his companion and out over the water.

“I’m sorry you lost your family,” he said after several moments. “My mom didn’t die but she left when I was a baby because she didn’t love me,” he whispered. “And my dad loved her more than he loves me, so sometimes he acts like I’m not there. I’m not anything like her. I’m strange, and I make people uncomfortable. I think he wishes I was never born.”

Will felt Hannibal’s eyes move to his face, and he met his gaze shyly.

“Would you like to go swimming with me, Will?” Hannibal asked, and Will’s fingers flexed around the bucket. He wanted nothing more than to go swimming with Hannibal, but the beach was still strewn with flotsam and it was his job to clean it up.

“I can’t, I - I have to work,” Will stammered, and Hannibal stepped towards him.

“May I help you with your work?” he asked, and he gave a slight smile at the look on Will’s face. “If I help you, you will finish more quickly, and then we can both go swimming,” he explained.

Will nodded, trying to suppress his amazement that this golden-haired, cinnamon-eyed creature who came all the way from Europe would choose to spend his time cleaning refuse off the beach his family owned.

“Yeah,” he said breathlessly, “yeah, you can help.”

In the end, it took the two of them a fraction of the time to clear the beach that it would have taken Will alone, as Hannibal was both larger and stronger despite his gaunt frame. When the beach was cleaned, the boys stripped off their clothes and flung themselves into the waves, and Will told Hannibal all his favorite stories about funny seabirds fighting over fish on the docks and how he would sometimes pretend the small cottage he shared with his father was a boat on the sea. As the sun passed the midpoint in the sky the boys were driven from the beach by the press of hunger, and Robertus seemed shocked at the sight of the two of them making their dripping way towards the house side-by-side. Will parted from Hannibal at the vast glass doors that opened out onto the patio, knowing he had no place in the gleaming luxury of the house. Hannibal seemed disappointed, but did not try to lure him further in.

Will returned to the cottage and shared a silent meal with his father before helping him tend to one of the older sailboats, and as he lay awake that night he thought about his time with Hannibal and a warm feeling spread through his chest.

It was only years later that Will learned that morning at the beach was the first time Hannibal had spoken in four years.

 

 

\---

 

June 1965

 

It’s not yet noon but the sun is already a pressing heat against Will’s back as he stands on the patio outside the house, trying to work up the courage to knock on the great glass doors. The patio is strewn with glasses and bottles and towels, the remnants of last night’s party appearing somehow even more debauched beneath the white light of late-morning. The revelry lasted until past three am - Will knows this, because the noise carried all the way to his small cottage, where he lay alone on his narrow bed with his pillow over his head and tried to ignore the way his heart was being crushed by a steel vise. He slept fitfully when the noise at last died down, and rose mere hours later to begin his work for the day. He stayed away from the house for as long as he could, combing the waterfront at the far edges of the property and checking the fittings of the small piers that jutted out into the water, until at last he could not pretend even to himself that there was reason for him to avoid seeing to the task that Hannibal had assigned him yesterday, and he was forced to make the unhappy trudge to the dock nearest to the sprawling gray mansion.

Hannibal wanted to take his friends sailing today, he had told Will, and as a result he required that the largest of the family yachts be prepared accordingly. Will turned his face away from the house when it came into view, hurrying towards the dock and wishing he could dissolve into a million grains of sand and disappear. But he did not dissolve; instead, he made his way to the large shed where the boat supplies were kept and realized he had lost his key. His heart leapt to his throat and his knees felt weak. How could he have possibly lost it? He had maintained the keys to the boathouses since he was sixteen, and never once had he misplaced a single one. The key to this shed had been clipped to the interior of his work vest for ten years, since his father died and Will took over in his place - how was it possible that he had managed to lose it? Will felt a surge of panic rising in his chest and tried to suppress the turmoil of his emotion, pressing his forehead against the painted wood of the shed and breathing deeply to calm his racing heart.

There were spares for every key locked in the house, but only Hannibal could get them, which meant that Will had to go find him, had to go brush up against the world behind the great glass doors.

 _One, two, three_ , he said to himself as he forced his breath to slow, _one, two, three_.

After ten minutes of deep-breathing and self-recrimination, Will made his way at last to the house, and came to stand in front of the great glass doors with the heat of the sun at his back. He hasn’t entered the house since his ill-fated conversation with Lady Murasaki in 1963, and his hand shakes as he raises it to the glass to knock. Two tousled heads emerge from a sofa with its back to the doors and glare at him, and Will withdraws his hand immediately. No knocking, then, he realizes, and he steels himself and moves his hand to the doorknob. He makes his way inside silently, and the two heads disappear behind the arched sofa, presumably going back to sleep. Will tries to control his expression but he cannot stop the trembling in his fingers as he makes his way quietly through the decadent living room where beautiful strangers lay sprawled, past the gleaming kitchen, down the long hallway lined with paintings and up the airy staircase. The windows are open on the second floor and a breeze stirs the white curtains, pressing against Will’s back and seeming to propel him inevitably towards the door to Hannibal’s room.

Will clenches his fists, digging his fingernails into his palm and drawing in a deep breath before, at last, he raises his hand to knock. His knock is quiet, barely noticeable, so when there is no response Will tries again, harder this time. He can hear the sound of sheets rustling, the muted thud of two feet hitting the floor and the shuffle of steps, and at last the door opens and Hannibal stands before him, naked except for a blanket wrapped around his hips. He raises an eyebrow and gives Will a cruel smile.

“Good morning, Will,” he says quietly, and Will clenches his teeth and looks at the floor.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he bites out, “but I… I can’t find the key to the boat shed, and I need to get in to get the Venus ready.”

Hannibal is silent for several moments, and even across the distance between them Will can feel the heat of his body, so long and golden and firm, and can smell the musky scent of his sex. It’s dizzying.

“You do not disturb me,” Hannibal says at last, and he moves out of the doorway and back into the bedroom. “One moment, please.”

Without Hannibal’s bulk filling the doorway, Will finds his eyes drawn irresistibly to the bed. He feels a sickly turn in his stomach at the sight of the woman there, who is blinking sleepily and whose brown curls are spilling over her shoulders.

“Hannibal, is everything okay?” she asks, drawing a sheet up to cover her bare breasts and glancing at Will as if he were some sort of unwholesome and unnerving intrusion into the dreamy landscape that is her life.

Which, Will realizes with a sinking stomach, is exactly what he is. An unwelcome, unbeautiful intrusion into this world beyond the great glass doors. A dingy fishing boat in a dock full of gleaming yachts. A wad of seaweed on a beach of pristine sand. Hannibal smiles and leans over, one knee and both hands on the bed, to kiss her.

“Everything is fine, my darling,” he tells her, and Will moves his eyes to stare resolutely out the window and over the vast expanse of sea, “one of my employees simply needs something.”

Will swallows around the lump in his throat and ignores the pounding of his heart in his ears as he hears Hannibal dressing quietly. He steps further back into the hallway and looks at the ground as Hannibal moves to join him, telling the woman he will be back shortly and closing the door softly behind him. Will can see Hannibal’s fingers twitching in his peripheral vision as he steps closer to Will, and he imagines that it is so hard for Hannibal not to be able to touch the beautiful woman in his bed that he can’t keep his fingers still. Will shoves his own fingers in his pockets and clears his throat.

“Ah, your uncle usually kept the keys in his study,” Will says in a low voice, looking anywhere but at Hannibal’s face. Hannibal is still for several moments, and Will can feel his eyes on him, but he doesn’t look up.  

“It is most unusual for you to lose a key, Will,” Hannibal observes at last, moving towards the stairs. “In all the years that I have known you, I have never known you to do such a thing. Perhaps your mind has been distracted, as of late? Has something been bothering you, Will?”

Will falls into step behind Hannibal and bites his lip, hurt and anger coiling together in his chest. He hates this side of Hannibal, this twisted enjoyment he gains from dangling all the things that Will can never have in front of Will’s face. Hannibal knows damn well that it is his own behavior that has been distracting Will lately, but he can’t resist the urge to twist the knife. Will tells himself again that Murasaki was right: that Hannibal is cruel, and Hannibal never loved him. Will thinks of the days of excess and debauchery that Hannibal has forced him to witness, how Hannibal has ordered him to lay out blankets and lanterns in secluded areas of the beach and then clean them up the following day, when they are tangled and damp and thick with the scent of Hannibal’s sex. He thinks of the love-stained sheets on the bed in the yacht that he has been forced to clean, the visions of Hannibal surrounded by beautiful strangers, all of them laughing and lit like fireflies on a night-time beach while Will sits in the shadows, waiting in interminable silence for their games to end so that he can clean the shoreline and at last go to sleep in his narrow, rickety bed.

Hannibal would never have been this blatantly hedonistic with Robertus around, but Robertus is not around. He died in Europe a year ago, and Murasaki had gone back to Japan shortly thereafter. So now the property is Hannibal’s to do with as he wants, and what he wants, it seems, is to turn it into his own personal Xanadu, complete with a servant trailing in the wake of his pleasure-making to clean up the mess.

Hannibal strides into the study with Will trailing silently after, making his way to Robertus’ desk and withdrawing a metal lockbox from a deep drawer. Will stands awkwardly near the doorway until Hannibal presses his hands into the smooth wood of Robertus’ desk and makes no move to open the lockbox. He drums his fingers against the desk and pushes away instead, making his way to the bay window.  

“Sit for a moment, won’t you, Will?” he asks, in that tone that is not quite a question and not quite an order.

“I’d rather not,” Will says slowly, shifting on his feet, “I have a lot to do today, and-”

Hannibal cuts him off. “Despite the awkwardness between us, I understand that as it stands I am still your employer. Am I correct in this, Will?” he asks, and Will swallows down the rancid taste of his bitterness.

“Yeah,” he bites out, “yeah, you’re correct.”

“Then _sit_ ,” Hannibal says, and Will forces his feet to move to one of the cushioned chairs near the bay window, which Hannibal opens to let in the breeze and the steady thrum of the waves. Will sits in silence, his hands clenched in his lap, as Hannibal makes his way to the drink cart and pours them both a healthy serving of liquor into cut crystal glasses. Hannibal hands him a glass and then settles into the chair across from him, his eyes heavy on Will’s face.

“How are you, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will forces himself to swallow a bitter laugh and instead takes a large swig of his drink. It burns his throat. Hannibal has been back for over a month, and up to this point he has seemed perfectly content limiting his interactions with Will to ordering him around. Will doesn’t understand why he feels the need for idle pleasantries now.

“I’m fantastic, Hannibal,” he says shortly, and Hannibal’s free hand taps against the arm of his chair.

“It’s strange to be back here,” Hannibal says. “I find things so much the same, and yet so different.”

“Hm,” Will says simply, shifting his gaze out to the dunegrass where it waves past the window.

“And what have you been doing to entertain yourself, these past two years?” Hannibal asks. “Surely you haven’t spent the whole time raking dead fish and seaweed from the docks.”

“No,” Will says slowly, suppressing a flare of anger at Hannibal’s dismissal of his back-breaking labor, “I haven’t.”

“Then what have you been doing?” Hannibal is persistent, and Will finally meets his gaze.

“I’ve been fucking my way across Europe,” Will says crisply. “We have that in common.”

Hannibal shifts in his chair, leaning closer to Will. “You are being purposefully evasive,” he says, and Will takes another drink.

“Maybe I’m being evasive because it’s none of your fucking business what I’ve been doing,” Will hisses, and Hannibal stiffens in his chair.

“You are incorrect, Will,” he says coldly, “I am your employer, and you live on my property. As such, it is very much _my business_ what you’ve been doing.”

Will clenches his fist against his thigh. “Yes Hannibal, you’re my _employer_ ,” he says sharply, “not my keeper. As long as I keep doing my job, I’m not obligated to share any other part of my life with you.”

Hannibal draws in a deep breath, and beneath the implacable exterior Will can see a familiar fire burning in his eyes. He is angry, and working hard to hide it.

“True enough. But I am no longer your only employer, am I, Will?” he asks. “And from what I hear, you are more than willing to share your life with _them_.”

Will stiffens in his seat, a frisson of unease crawling up his spine. How the hell had Hannibal found out about the Fosters?

“I hardly see how the work I do at Foster's Five and Dime has anything to do with you, Hannibal,” he says slowly, and Hannibal’s hand twitches against his leg.

“On the contrary, Will, it has everything to do with me,” he says. “I have been away for two years, paying you a salary and trusting that you will fulfill your duties in keeping with it. And then I return here to find that while I was gone you have been working elsewhere. How am I to know you haven’t been taking advantage of my generosity and shirking your duties?”

Will sets his glass aside, barely able to contain the anger that is crawling up his throat. “ _Look around you, Hannibal_ ,” he bites out, wrapping his fingers tightly around the wicker arms of his chair. “ _Does it look like I’ve been ‘shirking my duties’?_ ”

“It would be easy enough to hide it, if you did,” Hannibal says coolly, swirling his drink. “From what I hear you’ve been spending a great deal of time with the Fosters, and their daughter is-”

Will rises to his feet in a sharp movement. “Leave Molly out of this,” he spits, and Hannibal’s face darkens.

“Molly?” he says in a tight voice, and Will realizes his mistake.

“Fuck you, Hannibal,” he bites out. “Either fire me or give me the key. Your choice.”

“Would you speak to _Molly_ this way?” Hannibal asks, his voice hard as flint. “Or am I your only _employer_ who gets that privilege?”

Will says nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the blue and white fibers of the rug. At last Hannibal drains his drink and rises to stand, setting his glass beside the lockbox and entering the combination. He withdraws the key and extends his arm to Will, who crosses the distance between them wordlessly and takes it, making sure their fingers don’t touch.

“I’ll have the Venus ready for you by three,” he says curtly, and then he turns his back and makes his way out of the study, closing the door quietly behind him. The silence of the house is broken by the crash of shattering crystal, and the doorknob vibrates in Will’s hand from the force of Hannibal’s throw. Will lets go of the doorknob, and the sound rings in his ears as he stumbles down the hall and back out through the great glass doors.

When Will returns to his cottage that night he finds the key to the boat shed, the one he keeps clipped to his work vest, waiting on his bedside table, along with a note from Hannibal. “Terminate your employment with the Fosters or your time here is finished,” it says in Hannibal’s flourishing cursive, and Will’s skin prickles.

 

 


	2. "What are your plans, Will?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks so much to those of you who kudosed and commented on the first chapter! It makes me so happy that folks out there are enjoying this drama-fest :). Rest assured, there is more angst and pining to come. 
> 
> A few things to note:
> 
> 1) I'm having so much fun writing this that I've decided to make it longer: five chapters for now, with possibly a fluffy epilogue if it seems like people want it!  
> 2) In the interest of Maximizing the Drama, what what happens in the month of August is being presented to you out of chronological order. Keep that in mind as you read! :)  
> 3) For those who are interested in period-appropriate mood music for this chapter, give this song a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SjDqMftHbKI.  
> 4) I'm going out of town next week, so the next chapter will take a bit longer to be posted. 
> 
> Okay, I think that's everything. Happy reading! :)

 

 

August 1965

 

Will’s orgasm breaks over him like an inevitable tide, roaring in his ears and spreading through his limbs in waves. He cannot help the sounds he makes as he comes, as his body tenses and he releases himself into the blissful wet heat that surrounds him. His skin is damp with sweat, the air thick with humidity and his own strangled moans, and when at last his cock stops pulsing he lets his head fall back to the pillow with a quiet thud. His breath is deep and unsteady, and Molly is smiling.

“Gotcha, cowboy,” she says, her face spread wide in a wicked grin, and Will can’t suppress a laugh as he pulls her up his body and presses their lips together in a kiss. He can taste himself in her mouth. She releases his lips with a smack and tucks herself in beside him, still smiling. She is always smiling at Will, her love easy and uncomplicated.

Will doesn’t understand what she sees in him: doesn’t understand what compelled her to look past his biting lack of social graces and open her arms to him. He has never thought of himself as particularly appealing, believing as Murasaki said that Hannibal’s interest in him was only ever due to proximity. He hadn’t known what to make of Molly when they were introduced a year ago, when she had taken his hand in a firm grip and told him she was very happy to meet him. He hadn’t known what to make of her when she followed him around her father’s store and filled the aisles with the sound of her laughter, or when she showed up at his cottage door two days later with a box of condoms and asked if she could come inside. But she had, and now they are here, tangled up like sea creatures on Will’s narrow bed.

“Where’d you go, Will?” Molly asks softly, and Will reaches for her hand.

“Nowhere,” he says, and he kisses her knuckles. Molly smiles again and runs her fingers through his hair, letting out a hum.

“You’re so pretty, Will, do you know that?” she says, and she laughs at the look on his face. “It’s true!” she cries. “I know you’re not supposed to say that about men, but really - it’s true. You’re beautiful. You’re like a painting.”

Hannibal said similar things in the past, but somehow the praise feels different coming from Molly. It doesn’t snake its way down his throat and take root in his stomach, doesn’t make his head light and his limbs unsteady the way it had when the words came from Hannibal. It doesn’t make him feel as though he is pinned prostrate beneath the heavy weight of his own longing.

“Thanks, I think?” he says, glancing over at Molly with a smirk, and she laughs again before looking at her wristwatch.

“God, how is it already almost four?” she groans, pressing her face against Will’s shoulder, and Will trails his fingers down her back.

“I need to be out by four thirty,” he says quietly, and Molly looks up at him with a scowl.

“Hannibal has you working that early? _Again_?” she asks, and Will looks away.

“Yeah,” he says, and Molly shakes her head.

“He’s such an _asshole_ ,” she grumbles, and Will can’t suppress a chuckle. She has no idea. Molly tucks her face back against his shoulder.

“Dad wants me to help him open the store at six, so I need to leave soon anyway,” she says, her voice muffled against his skin, but neither of them make a move to leave the bed. They lay in silence for several moments, and Will listens to the faint but steady thrum of the waves in the distance.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says at last, and Molly lifts her head. Her face is soft and open.

“Yeah?” she says. “About what?”

“About what your dad said. About us getting married and taking over the store.”

Molly licks her lips. “Oh yeah?” she whispers, her voice uncharacteristically strained.

“Yeah,” Will murmurs, and he lifts a hand to brush stray hairs from her forehead. “I’ve been thinking we should do it,” he says, and Molly sits up abruptly.

“ _Will_ ,” she says, pressing her hands into his shoulders and gaping at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious,” he laughs, and Molly squeals.

“Oh my _God_!” she cries, flinging herself down on top of him. “I’m so happy, Will! I can’t wait to tell Dad! I have to go, he’s not gonna believe it, I have to-” But Will catches her wrist before she can leave the bed, and he pulls her back for a kiss.

“I think I owe you something before you go,” he tells her, and Molly laughs.

“Oh my _God_ Will,” she says, crumpling back onto the narrow mattress and spreading out on her back. “Only for _this_ would I let you stop me,” she tells him with a grin, and she looks at her wristwatch again. Her wide face is beaming, her body warm and flushed. “You’ve got twenty minutes, cowboy,” she says. “Think that’s enough time to get the job done?”

Will slides down the length of her body. “What do _you_ think?” he asks, and he kisses the soft skin of her inner thigh.

“I think today is going to be a very good day,” she says with a grin, and Will presses his tongue against her folds.

Thirty minutes later Will is out on the main dock, where the sun has not yet risen and a cool breeze blows in over the water. The great house is lit like a lantern in the distance, and Will wonders what Hannibal is doing. He wonders who is sleeping next to him, and what sorts of sounds they made as they tumbled together in the darkness. He wonders how Hannibal looks by moonlight, sprawled out like a prince on his wide bed beyond the great glass doors.  

 

\---

 

1955

 

After that meeting on the beach, Hannibal and Will were nearly inseparable during the summer months. Robertus would return to the Hamptons every May with Hannibal in tow, and Will would spend the next five months trailing in Hannibal’s wake like a moth in the thrall of an electric lamp. Hannibal would read to him, teach him languages, and tell him all about the beautiful places he’d visited while he was away. Will would tell Hannibal about the cold crystalline winds that blew in over the Atlantic during the winter months, and how in December the small downtown was hung with Christmas lights and everything was coated with a thick layer of snow.

Robertus noticed, of course, the friendship developing between his nephew and the son of his serial-alcoholic hired help. There were times when it concerned him, but ultimately he decided it was harmless. For although the boys seemed attached at the hip during Hannibal’s time in the Hamptons, his nephew never seemed to mind leaving his summer companion behind when the season drew to a close. And when they played together, Hannibal never brought Will into the house: he seemed to understand through some unspoken agreement that his uncle would not approve of it. And besides, Robertus had too many other things on his mind to worry overmuch about his nephew’s strange taste in social companions. There was the beautiful woman in Japan, for example: Lady Murasaki, whom Robertus had been courting for the last several years. There were boat races and garden parties and investments overseas, not to mention the rumors of possible American involvement in the Vietnam conflict. Let the boys be friends, Robertus decided, for he knew that when Hannibal was older, and had spent more time abroad in the company of more appropriate society, he would quickly forget about the small, sad-eyed boy whose livelihood depended on the Lecter family’s generosity.  

Beau Graham also noticed the friendship between his son and the Lecter boy, but he was not so dismissive of its dangers as his employer chose to be. He separated the boys as often as he could, tracking them down wherever they had sequestered themselves around the property and flushing them out like rabbits from a warren. No matter where the boys went, Beau Graham would try to find them, and when he did he would order his son to stop wasting time and come do an honest day’s work. When this happened, Will would trudge along behind his father in sullen silence, and Hannibal would glower at Beau Graham’s retreating back as if he wished to stop his heart with his gaze.

Unfortunately for Beau, his efforts did little to dull his son’s ardor for the Lecter boy’s company; if anything, they seemed to strengthen it. However, Beau’s actions did yield an entirely separate benefit. All the hours spent toiling beside his father meant that Will learned from a young age how to fix and maintain boat motors, how to rig the sails of premier yachts, how to maintain docks and beaches, and how to captain any vessel in the Lecter fleet if required. In fact, his skills at these various tasks quickly surpassed those of his father, and as the years went by more and more of the work Beau Graham was expected to do was carried out by his son instead. Beau Graham would sit on decks and docks and sand and take nips of whiskey while he supervised his young son in his labor, and as time passed he sank even deeper into the thrall of his alcoholism. He would look up at the great gray house and think of the haughty Lecter boy, of the way his son looked at that boy as if he had hung the moon, and in the depths of his whiskey-addled fervor he would try to warn Will about the dangers Hannibal posed to him, about the dangers of believing himself to be a friend of someone so far above his social class.

“That boy’s gonna forget you, Will Graham,” he would slur. “You think he’s your friend, but he’s not. You’re nothing but entertainment, and entertainment comes cheap to people like him.”

It was easy enough for Will to ignore his father while Hannibal was visiting for the summer, when he could fall asleep in the little cottage knowing that the next morning he would wake to another sunny day in which Hannibal was only as ever as far away as the great gray house. He simply had to turn his mind away from Beau Graham’s fatalism and imagine he was somewhere else: wandering tree-lined boulevards in Paris, exploring vaulted churches in Florence, or traipsing over mist-covered mountains in Madeira. He would pretend that he was visiting these places with Hannibal instead of simply hearing about them secondhand; he would nod his head, and do as he was told, and bide his time until his next opportunity to sneak past his inebriated father’s attention and spend time with Hannibal again. But when summer drew to its inevitable close, and Will had to watch once again as Hannibal bundled into his uncle’s Rolls-Royce and disappeared from his life for another seven interminable months, he would return to his father’s side like a bird with damaged wings, and his father would shake his head and sigh.

“I told you, Will,” he would say. “As soon as that boy gets the chance, he’ll leave. That’s never gonna change.” And when Will would try to protest, to tell his father he was wrong, Beau Graham would hold a finger to his son’s face and tell him: “I’m the only person you’ve got in this whole wide world.”

Will tried to listen to his father’s warnings, but every year when Robertus returned he found himself once again trapped in Hannibal’s orbit. He loved Hannibal desperately, the way a person loves a star or a painting, something so vastly greater than themselves that it boggles the comprehension. To him, Hannibal was sublime, perfection incarnate, and he told himself he didn’t care if he wasn’t Hannibal’s equal, as long as he was allowed to be in Hannibal’s life in whatever way Hannibal would have him. And so the years passed, and the boys grew into the middling years of their adolescence, and Will continued his unquestioning adoration of the only person who didn’t seem to mind his painful strangeness, his awkwardness when speaking to his peers, his unflagging tendency to do the wrong thing at the wrong time.

And so the years passed, and the boys grew, and what Hannibal thought of him, Will never really knew. He never asked, because he was too afraid to know the the answer.

Will’s father died in 1955, when at last the decades of damage he’d wrought upon his body took their toll and he fell into a sleep from which he never woke. Robertus Lecter paid for Beau Graham to be buried with a modest headstone in a local cemetery, and only three people attended the ceremony: Hannibal, Will, and Robertus himself. Will could feel Hannibal’s eyes on his face as his father’s coffin was lowered into the grave, and he thought of his father’s words: “I’m the only person you’ve got in this whole wide world.” It felt as though the ground might open up and swallow him whole. Beau Graham was the only support system Will had ever known, and now that he was gone Will feared his small world would fall apart at the seams. He had no idea what would happen to him now, what he would do or where he would go. He had never felt so alone.

When they returned to the Lecter estate Robertus brought Will inside the house and into his study, and Will followed after him with a mute sense of terror. It was the first time he’d ever been allowed in the house, the first time he’d ever crossed the threshold of the great glass doors, and his body trembled with nervousness when he seated himself in one of the wide leather chairs by Robertus’ desk. He was overwhelmed by the combination of his father’s death and his sudden intrusion into this previously forbidden place, and his voice shook when he tried to speak.

Robertus asked him in delicate terms whether he had any other family, or anywhere else to go. Will told him no. Robertus asked him if he had any money, and Will told him no. Robertus rubbed a hand over his face and decided that there simply wasn’t anything else to be done.

“I’d like to extend you an invitation to stay here, Will,” he said, “and keep working in your father’s place. You’ll be done with high school in two years, correct?” he asked, and Will nodded. “In that case, I’ll allow you to live in the cottage, working part time during the school year and full time during the summer. Once you graduate you can work full time, unless you find another situation. Provided, of course, that you fulfill all your father’s old duties to my level of satisfaction.” (In truth, Robertus knew that Will had already been performing most of his father’s old duties for years now, but he sought to spare the boy any additional mortification and thus did not mention it.) “Do you agree to these terms, Will?” he asked, and he took the boy’s furtive nod as confirmation. His mouth twisted in sympathy when Will shuffled silently from the chair, and he heaved a great sigh. Will had always been such an awkward, skittish thing, and now an orphan on top of everything else. Such a pity.

“Thank you, Mr. Lecter,” Will said, and Robertus felt his sentimental heart twinge. He rose and walked around the desk, giving the boy’s shoulder a gentle pat.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, my boy,” he told him, and so indulgent was his mood that he didn’t even scold his nephew when he found him in the hallway, listening to their conversation through the door.

For Will’s part, he fled back out through the great glass doors the moment he got the chance, and he stumbled his way back to the small cottage that was now solely his to call home. Hannibal couldn’t follow him, his uncle wouldn’t allow it, so Will sat alone in deafening silence as darkness fell and the shadows began to take shape around him. He curled up in his bed and tried to drown out the sounds they made with his pillow, and his chest was racked with sobs. At last, after what felt like an eternity, he felt the bed shift, and the heavy weight of Hannibal’s body pressed against his back.

“When the world feels like it’s closing in around me I take deep breaths and count to three,” Hannibal told him, sliding his arms around Will’s chest, and Will tried to follow his advice.

 _One, two, three_ , he said to himself, _one, two, three_.

“I’m glad you’re staying here, Will,” Hannibal murmured. “If my uncle hadn’t offered you the chance I would have demanded it of him.”

Will’s face creased in confusion.

“You would have?” he asked, his voice still ragged from weeping. “Why?”

“Because I love you, Will,” Hannibal said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “and I will never let anything separate us.”

“I love you too,” Will said hoarsely, “more than anything.”

Hannibal tightened his arms around Will’s chest and tucked his chin against Will’s shoulder. “Go to sleep, Will,” he murmured.

“What about you?” Will asked, his eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. “If your uncle finds you here he’ll kill me.” Hannibal rubbed his cheek against Will’s hair, and Will felt the soft breath of his laughter against his ear.

“I’ll go back to the house as soon as you’re asleep,” Hannibal told him, and he pressed a gentle kiss to Will’s shoulder.

“I want to stay with you forever, Hannibal,” Will slurred, his eyes falling closed, and Hannibal caressed his hair.

“And you will,” he murmured, or at least Will thinks he did. Even in later years he never knew with any certainty whether the words were real or simply something that he dreamed.

 

\---

 

June 1965

 

The night is clear and cool, and the only sound Will can hear is the gentle lapping of the waves against the sides of the boat. The noise from below deck died down a few hours ago, the gentle murmurs and throaty cries of pleasure finally giving way to silence. Will sits with his arms folded over the railing, his face tucked into his elbow. He isn’t sure what time it is; he lost track somewhere after midnight, when the rumbling sounds of Hannibal’s groans traveled like fire through his limbs and sent him fleeing to the bow, the furthest he could possibly be from what was going on in the cabin below. He has spent the hours since sliding in and out of consciousness, and he doesn’t know whether he’s awake when he realizes he’s no longer alone on deck.

“Hannibal?” he asks hoarsely, blinking up at the long figure leaning against the railing beside him. Hannibal is wearing sleep pants slung low over his hips and a shirt he has not bothered to button, his posture loose-limbed and easy from sex. The hair on his chest glints in the light of the deck lanterns, and Will forces himself to look away. He wonders how long Hannibal has been standing there. He wonders whether or not this is a dream.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal says, reaching into his shirt pocket and lighting a cigarette.

“Do you want to go home?” Will asks blearily, and Hannibal raises an eyebrow.

“Home?” he asks in a low voice. “Why, Will? Have you finally grown tired of this game we’re playing?”

Will’s face creases in confusion, his mind slow and sluggish from lack of sleep. Game? What game? He is too tired to untangle Hannibal’s riddles. And then he remembers the woman below deck, how she and Hannibal played games of pleasure all evening while he captained the boat per Hannibal’s orders. Ah.

“You can play your games as long as you want, Hannibal,” he says, pressing his palms against his eyes and trying to ignore the dull stirrings of a headache behind his temples. “Far be it from me to keep the rich and beautiful of Southampton from having their fun,” he adds bitterly.

Hannibal is silent, drumming his free fingers against the railing, and for a moment Will thinks he’s misunderstood him, until Hannibal takes a long draw of his cigarette and speaks again.

“Far be it from you, indeed,” he says coolly, “when one such person signs your paycheck.”

Will swallows down his sudden flare of anger and forces himself to stand, pressing his back against the railing.

“Was there something you needed, Hannibal?” he asks, and Hannibal looks out over the water.

“We’ve hardly spoken since our argument over your employment with the Fosters,” he says, and Will folds his arms across his chest.

“Yeah, well, there hasn’t been much to say,” he mutters. “I did what you wanted. I do what you tell me to do when you tell me to do it. What else do we have to talk about?” Hannibal takes another draw from his cigarette.

“July Fourth,” he says, and it’s such a non-sequitur that Will can only stare at him.

“What?” he finally asks after several moments.

“As I understand it, my uncle did not require you to work on July Fourth,” Hannibal says. “Is that correct?”

Will’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t like where this conversation is going.

“Yeah, that’s correct,” he says, and Hannibal shifts so that he’s facing Will. Will has forgotten, over the years, how much bigger Hannibal is than him: taller even with his hips cocked against the railing. Will turns so that he is facing the water, sliding away from Hannibal’s looming form.

“I take it then that you do not intend to work on July Fourth this year?” Hannibal asks. “That you have made other plans?”

Will clears his throat, treading carefully. “Correct,” he says slowly, and he tries not to stare at the way Hannibal’s lips close around his cigarette as he brings it to his mouth.

“What are your plans, Will?” he asks, and Will grits his teeth. His first instinct is to tell Hannibal that it’s none of his fucking business what his plans are, but considering how well that tactic worked last time he forces himself to take a different tack.

“I’m going to Agawam Park to watch the fireworks,” he grits out, and Hannibal hums.

“I’d like to take the Primavera out so Alana and I can watch the fireworks from the water,” he says, and Will wonders whether Alana is the woman in the bed below deck or one of the other beautiful faces he’s seen trailing in and out of Hannibal’s arms over the last several weeks. “Can you have it ready for me by four? The fireworks won’t begin until after sundown, so I don’t imagine this will conflict with your plans.”

Will drums his fingers against the railing, silently seething. He has been invited to spend the day with the Fosters, first to watch the morning parade and then to join them at their house for a cookout before the fireworks display. The Primavera is one of the oldest and most irksome boats in the Lecter fleet, and it inevitably takes Will half a day to get it seaworthy.

“Yeah,” Will says through his teeth. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Hannibal doesn’t respond, and silence settles over them. Will tries to fight the haze of exhaustion that is creeping in around the edges of his vision as the water laps against the boat and Hannibal takes slow draws from his cigarette. After several minutes, Hannibal finally speaks again.

“I had you on the deck of this boat,” he observes casually, “on your twenty-second birthday. Do you remember?”

Will swallows around the lump in his throat, his weariness suddenly replaced by the white-hot thrum of arousal coursing through his limbs at the memory. His fingers seek out the cool metal of the railing. He remembers.

“My uncle was asleep below deck, and I had to put my hand over your mouth to cover the sounds you were making,” Hannibal says, his face devoid of expression.

Will remembers that day, the way the afternoon sun beat down on his head and neck, the way the deck shifted and swayed beneath his hands and knees. He remembers the press of Hannibal’s chest against his back and the salty taste of Hannibal’s fingers against his lips. Yes, he remembers. 

“Luckily for us, we’ve both moved on to happier times, haven’t we, Will?” Hannibal asks, and he pushes himself away from the railing. “Get the boat started and take us back,” he says curtly, and he walks away without another word.

Will stands frozen as Hannibal leaves, his fingers clenched tight around the railing, and he stays that way long after he hears the cabin door click shut. At last, the sound of water running and the quiet murmur of voices below deck snaps him out of his stupor, and he releases his aching fingers with a curse. It’s only then that he brings his hands to his face and runs his fingers through the wetness there, and wonders how long he has been crying.

 


	3. Independence Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Sorry for the long wait with this chapter! I was out of town for a while, but I'm home now and excited to get back to this story! Thanks again to everyone who has kudosed and commented on previous chapters! I haven't been responding to individual comments but please know that I read and cherish them all <3\. 
> 
> A few notes about this chapter:
> 
> 1) CW for sex while under the influence of alcohol. The act is purely consensual, but I wanted to give a warning in case that is something people prefer not to read.  
> 2) CW for a reference to period-typical homophobia.  
> 3) CW for infidelity.  
> 4) PSA that sex is never a good substitute for proper communication lol.  
> 5) For any non-U.S. readers who aren't familiar with the Fourth of July/Independence Day holiday: it's a common tradition for communities to gather together after sundown to watch a fireworks display, which is why Will is at the park with Molly's family in the third part of the chapter.  
> 6) Don't be surprised if you start to feel bad for Hannibal in this chapter. Keep in mind that what Will thinks about Hannibal's actions, thoughts, and motives isn't necessarily true. 
> 
> Okay, I think that's everything :). Thanks for reading!

 

 

August 1965

 

Will knows as soon as he sees Hannibal that he’s made a mistake in coming here.

He had eaten a solitary dinner in his cottage, trying not to think about Hannibal or Molly or the hollow space at the pit of his stomach. He had cleaned the dishes and put them away, had paced the length of his small bedroom and pressed his hands against the window. He had tried to resist the magnetic pull of his curiosity, the whispered voice in his ear telling him that it wouldn’t hurt to look, but he had failed. He had found himself out of doors, propelled to the great house as if by hypnosis, drawn to the voices and lights, the crooning of the jazz band and the gentle susurrus of laughter and clinking glasses. The sun was setting, Hannibal’s birthday party well underway, and Will knew he wouldn’t be seen where he settled down to watch.

And he was fine, at first, hidden by shadows and distance and watching strangers move across the patio like dancers, but when Hannibal emerges from the great glass doors Will feels as though the air has been sucked from his lungs. He presses his fingernails into the skin of his palms, and in the deepest part of his body, he _wants_. He wants Hannibal with the kind of longing that scrabbles at the throat and whispers cruel fantasies in the ear, that makes it hard to breathe or think.

Hannibal is wearing a suit, the fabric cut close against the long lines of his body, and he carries himself with all the easy grace of a feline. He takes a sip of champagne before turning to the woman beside him, and soon they are dancing. Will watches the way they move, the way Hannibal’s hand presses against her back, the way the woman clings to Hannibal’s shoulders. He thinks that Hannibal has never seemed so beautiful as he does right now, so graceful and perfect and so very, very far away. Will’s stomach twists, and his eyes fill with tears.

He had thought, for a moment, foolish as it was, that Hannibal might be bothered by the news Will had given him that morning. Apparently he was wrong.

Will shuffles back to his little cottage in a daze, past the caterers where they wait by the tables on the beach, past the dock where the Primavera and the Venus sway in gentle harmony with the waves, past the dunegrass where it seems to call to him in quiet sympathy. When Will reaches the cottage he pours himself a glass of whiskey and drains it in one go, and he does it again and again until his limbs feel warm and his brittle anguish is softened around the edges. He fills up a flask and slides it into his pocket, followed by a wooden ring and a small bottle of oil, and then he makes his way out onto the beach. His legs feel unsteady, and his feet shift and slip in the sand until they deposit him ungracefully in the shadowed light beside a pier. He draws his knees up to his chest and looks up at the sky, and he stays that way as hours pass, drinking from his flask and staring at the moon. He listens as the party-goers move down to the beach, listens to the tinkling tap of silverware against china and the way the voices blend with the sound of the waves. He listens as dinner ends and the party-goers make their way back to the great gray house, where the jazz band begins anew and the couples resume their dancing on the patio.

He has no idea what time it is when the flask is empty and he finally withdraws the ring from his pocket. He can’t afford a golden band for Molly, so he carved this one out of driftwood instead: whittled its shape out of sun-bleached wood and sanded it until its surface was round and smooth. He uncaps the bottle of oil and massages the liquid into the surface with gentle, steady fingers, hoping to bring out the striations of color, the quiet beauty for those who know where to look for it. Over the years, the oils from Molly’s hand will form a patina in the grain, but for now it needs these tender ministrations to help seal it against the world and all its cruelties. Will knows. He has developed a patina of his own, after all, or at least he has tried. He lifts the ring up to the moonlight so he can study it, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when a voice cuts through the darkness.

“What is that?”  

Will clutches the ring against his chest and turns his head, his heartbeat a thundering cacophony in his ears. “Hannibal?” he manages to ask, and Hannibal steps closer. He’s no longer wearing a jacket, his tie loosened and the top of his white shirt unbuttoned. His eyes are red-rimmed, his movements uncharacteristically loose around the edges, and Will wonders suddenly if he’s drunk.

“Answer the question, Will,” Hannibal says, his tongue rolling over the vowels, and Will blinks. Hannibal _is_ drunk, if the thickness of his accent is any indication.

“It’s a wedding ring,” Will says at length, sliding the small piece of wood back into his pocket. “I made it.”

Hannibal takes several steps closer, so that he is blocking the moon and looming over Will like a shadow.

“For that _woman_ you are going to marry?” he asks, and somehow the blackness in his eyes awakens an answering darkness in Will.

“Yes,” he says slowly, “I made it for Molly.” He lets his tongue linger over her name like a caress, and Hannibal swallows.

“Why are you doing this, Will?” he asks, and Will licks his lips.

“Why do you care?” he counters, and Hannibal moves so that he is standing even closer, the warmth of his skin reaching out for Will like tendrils in the darkness.

“This behavior is below you, Will,” Hannibal says, “it’s below both of us.”

It occurs to Will that he ought to be offended by this statement, that his response ought to be that every piece of this is Hannibal’s doing, that it’s Hannibal’s fault for making Will fall in love with him in the first place, but he stays silent. The whiskey in his blood tells him not to mind what Hannibal is saying.

_Don’t think about words_ , it whispers, _think about want_.

And Will does. He thinks about the kind of want that makes it hard to breathe or think. He thinks about the summer of 1959.

“How’s your hand?” Will asks, but he doesn’t wait for Hannibal to respond. Instead he reaches out and grasps Hannibal’s fingers, turning his palm up and tracing his fingertips over the bandages there. “It looked painful earlier. I was worried.”

Touching Hannibal feels very, very good, the whiskey-voice observes. Hannibal has gone completely still.

“Will,” Hannibal says, and Will moves his fingers up to his wrist, along his forearm and past the crook of his elbow. He squeezes his fingers into the firm muscle of Hannibal’s bicep and pulls him down beside him in the sand. “Will,” Hannibal says again, but Will is not listening. He’s trailing his fingers over the exposed skin at Hannibal’s neck, up over his throat and across the sharp planes of his face. He’s watching the way that Hannibal’s breath is stuttering in his chest, the way his skin is flushed and his eyes have gone bright and wild. He moves his hand to Hannibal’s pants and presses his palm against the tented fabric there. “ _Will_ ,” Hannibal moans, and Will moves his fingers to the clasp, unhooking it and sliding the zipper down. He reaches for the bottle of oil where it’s fallen to the sand and presses it into Hannibal’s palm. He meets Hannibal’s gaze.

“Yes?” he murmurs as he slides himself free of his shorts, his heart racing and his stomach gone molten. Hannibal’s hands are shaking.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, and he grips Will’s shoulders and shoves him back against the sand. He moves to press their lips together but Will stops him, slapping his palm over Hannibal’s mouth and holding his gaze. Hannibal’s eyes widen but he doesn’t try to move Will’s hand, instead uncapping the bottle of oil and moving his fingers to Will’s entrance.

It’s been years since anyone touched Will there besides himself, and the press of Hannibal’s broad fingers already feels like more pleasure than he can bear. Hannibal holds his gaze as he slides a fingertip in and out, stretching and loosening the tight muscle until he is able to add first one full finger and then another. Hannibal has always been good at this, and now he is cruel in his pleasure-giving, his eyes dark as Will squirms beneath him, tight moans and breathy gasps spilling from his lips one after another. Finally, when Will doesn’t think he can bear it anymore, he grits out, “Hannibal, _please_ ,” and Hannibal shifts, stretching out over Will’s chest and drawing Will’s knee up against his hip. He reaches down to line himself up and Will groans. Will spreads his legs wider and shifts his head back against the sand, and his lips fall open when Hannibal presses inside of him. Hannibal drives forward until he’s fully buried, and then he grips the back of Will’s head and brings their foreheads together with a ragged groan. Will’s limbs are tingling, his body unused to the heavy bulk of Hannibal’s cock after so much time without it. “ _Hannibal_ ,” he moans, and his breath catches in his throat when Hannibal begins to move. His limbs feel like they’re on fire, his head heavy from whiskey and pleasure and the kind of want that makes it hard to breathe or think.

He can feel the sand beneath his back shifting, moving and spreading in time with the snap of Hannibal’s hips against him. He can feel it sifting down the back of his collar and up underneath the hem of his cotton shirt, pressing sharp into his skin, and he wonders if the force of Hannibal’s thrusts and the static of his own desperate longing will create enough electricity to transform the sand to glass.

 

\---

 

1959

 

In the years following Beau Graham’s death, Hannibal grew into the kind of man that turned heads wherever he went. His limbs lengthened, his shoulders broadened, and his muscles tightened into a physique that made women lower their sunglasses and men tighten their arms around their girlfriend’s shoulders. His youthful charm was replaced by a simmering magnetism, and Will watched as every passing hour of every passing day brought more and more people clamoring for Hannibal’s attention. There was nothing Will could do to stop it, so he watched from a distance as his friend was swept further and further away from him and into the world beyond the great glass doors. Hannibal became the darling of the Hamptons social elite seemingly overnight, and Robertus made sure that his nephew’s days were booked from sunup to sundown. Will watched as strangers flocked to Hannibal at dinner parties, on sailing trips, and in impromptu luncheons when neighbors just-so-happened to drop by with their teenage daughters in tow. Long gone were the summers where he and Will had seemed glued together at the hip. Instead, Hannibal had very little time at all for Will in those years, and, perhaps worst of all, Will found that he thought it might be for the best.

For in a somewhat cruel twist of fate, the absolute havoc of puberty was far more effective at inspiring Will to keep his distance from Hannibal than Beau Graham's efforts had ever been. Being close to Hannibal made Will’s heart race and his stomach twist, made his breathing uneven and his legs feel weak. His feelings toward Hannibal had changed, and he had no idea how to make them go back to the way they were before. One night he dreamt of Hannibal’s weight pressing him down into the sand and when he woke to find his sheets sticky with his own semen, he realized that he _wanted_ Hannibal: wanted Hannibal in a way that men weren’t supposed to want other men. The realization left such terror in its wake that he had no idea what to do except to put distance between himself and Hannibal, to build a wall where no wall had existed before. On one side of the wall was Hannibal, golden star of the Hamptons social elite, surrounded by money and beauty and socially-acceptable suitors, and on the other side was Will, the outcast who never grew out of his strangeness, who had no money or family connections and whose only suitors were his own errant desires. He started pulling away from Hannibal, hiding parts of himself and swallowing statements that once he would have shared, all in the name of keeping his secret.

Hannibal noticed the changes between them, but he didn’t ask about them. He didn’t ask when Will started skirting away from touches that had once been commonplace between them, or when Will started closing the doorway to his bedroom during Hannibal’s late-night visits to the cottage. He didn’t ask when Will started keeping his shorts on during midnight swims at the beach, or when Will started making sure their shoulders didn’t brush when they walked side-by-side. He didn’t ask when Will started shifting away from him every time they sat down together, or when Will started averting his gaze whenever Hannibal stretched his body to its full length.

And for a while, it worked. For despite the changes taking place in his body, Will still found that the greatest happiness of his life came from spending time with Hannibal. Even with the easy, innocent comfort of their childhood friendship irrevocably warped, he felt a sense of contentment in Hannibal’s presence that he never felt anywhere else. Slowly, slowly, he started letting Hannibal get close again, and on nights when there were no festivities at the great house Hannibal would sneak out through the great glass doors and the two of them would spend the hours until early morning sitting at Will’s small kitchen table and simply talking. They would talk about anything and everything that came to mind: Will’s school, Hannibal’s tutors, philosophy, literature, what was happening in Cuba, whether America would really send those men into space. And if there were times when Will found himself fixated on Hannibal’s hands, or on the muscles of his back where they moved beneath his shirt, he always caught himself before he made any foolish mistakes. It was fine, he told himself, and he told himself that he was wrong when he thought he saw something in Hannibal’s eyes that made his stomach tighten and his breath draw short. He told himself that he was imagining it when he took a drink of water and Hannibal’s eyes followed the movement of his throat; that he was projecting his own desires when he thought he caught Hannibal staring at the exposed skin of his collarbone where his faded tee-shirt hung loose around his shoulder. For what were the odds that Hannibal shared his desire for men? And on the off chance that he did, why would he settle for Will of all people? _It’s all in your head,_  Will told himself, and for a while, he believed it.

He was able to maintain the detente of his own desires for three years, and it wasn’t until the summer of 1959 that his wall crumbled and he found himself staggering amidst the rubble. Hannibal came back somehow taller and even more beautiful than before, and the first time he visited the cottage Will found that he could not maintain his composure around him anymore. Will found that his hands would shake whenever Hannibal passed him a glass of wine or a book, and that his thoughts would go hazy and unfocused whenever he caught whiffs of Hannibal’s scent across the table. He found that his legs would feel weak and unsteady whenever he heard Hannibal’s knock at his door, and that his heartbeat would thunder in his ears whenever Hannibal wore clothes that exposed his arms or thighs.

_It’s fine_ , he told himself, _it’s fine_ , until one day he caught sight of a young woman slow-dancing with Hannibal on the patio at a dinner party, and suddenly it wasn’t fine anymore.

The dance was over in minutes, and the pair parted immediately after, but Will felt as though the image of their joined bodies had been etched into the back of his eyelids. He had assumed on an intellectual level that Hannibal was not a virgin, but the actual sight of physical intimacy between Hannibal and another person gave the assumption an immediacy that crawled up Will’s throat like a vine. He was _jealous_ , he realized, so jealous that he was ready to risk his only friendship, his home, and his livelihood to prostrate himself at Hannibal’s feet. It wasn’t fine anymore, he realized, and it never would be again.

He went about his tasks for the rest of the evening in a daze, and when Hannibal came to the cottage that night the words were tumbling out of Will’s mouth before he was fully aware of them.

“What do you want from me, Hannibal?” he asked, and something in his voice made Hannibal pause. Hannibal licked his lips and took several moments to respond, staring hard at the bottle of wine he’d brought as contraband from the world beyond the great glass doors.

“I want whatever you are willing to offer me, Will,” he said at last, very slowly, “as much, or as little.”

“And what if I wanted to offer you more than what I've offered you in the past?” Will asked, and Hannibal set his wineglass back onto the table with a quiet thud.

“Then I would accept it,” he said, meeting Will’s gaze. His eyes were unnervingly bright, and Will found he had to look away. “All of it.”

“All of it?” Will asked, his voice unsteady and his stomach tight. “How can you be certain?”

For in spite of everything, in spite of the tension that hung thick in the air and the way that Hannibal’s body had gone rigid in his chair and his breath was coming short, Will was still afraid that Hannibal misunderstood him.

“ _Will_ ,” Hannibal said, and his voice was so firm, so reverential that Will could not help but meet his gaze. “There is _nothing_ you could offer me that I would not cherish,” he said, and Will knew then with electrifying certainty that Hannibal had not misunderstood him.

Their lovemaking that night felt like a dam breaking. Once the first defenses were breached, Will’s desire poured out of him so thickly that he feared he might drown in it. He wanted to spend every waking moment making love to Hannibal, and his only comfort was the fact that Hannibal seemed to feel the same. Will lost track of how many times he found himself secreted away in empty boat-sheds, or on one of the Lecter family boats, or in the sand beside the piers at mid-day that summer. His work suffered as a result, but it didn’t matter. Robertus was more concerned with what was happening halfway around the world than he was with what was happening right under his nose, and he was oblivious to the fact that his nephew was sneaking out through the great glass doors at all hours of the day and that his hired help spent more time dumbstruck with pleasure than actually working. And so the summer of 1959 passed in a blur of sun and kisses and lovemaking, and it was heaven, _heaven_ , every moment, and Will felt like he’d found religion every time he felt the press of Hannibal’s fingers against his skin.

When Will and Hannibal parted ways at the end of the season, their goodbyes were full of touches and clutching, desperate promises.

“Don’t forget me,” Will pleaded, feeling like his heart might burst through his chest, and Hannibal cupped his face.

“ _Will_ ,” he said, showering Will’s face with kisses, “how can you say such a thing? You are my family, my only true family. I could no sooner forget you than I could forget myself.”

_Family_ , Will thought, _yes, Hannibal is my family_ , and he decided that the words were enough to maintain him through the long, endless months until Hannibal’s return. 

 

 

\---

 

 

July 1965

 

A woman standing in front of Will knocks against him for the third time in ten minutes, and he resists the urge to grimace when she turns to him with a plastered-on smile and crows out an insincere apology.

“It’s fine,” he bites out, and the woman turns away with a moue of displeasure. She and her companion have spent the entirety of their fifteen minutes in the soda line prattling endlessly about their plans for Christmas, and Will has tried and failed to block out the sounds of their inane conversation. He knew that people would flock to Agawam Park on July Fourth to see the fireworks, but in truth he still wasn’t prepared for the density of the crowd. He shoves his hands into his pockets and counts to three under his breath, shifting on his feet. The woman stiffens at the sound of his voice and throws another disapproving look over her shoulder. “Can I help you?” Will grits out, and she turns back to her companion with a huff.

“ _Well_ ,” she finally resumes, “as you know, Herbert and I really want to take the kids to Florida this year, but his mother is being _such_ a-” she cuts off abruptly, and Will briefly wonders what unseen deity he needs to thank for the interruption. “Is that _Hannibal Lecter_?” she says after a moment, and Will feels his stomach lurch, all previous thanks forgotten.

“Robertus Lecter’s nephew?” the second woman asks, craning her neck to look. “I think it is! I didn’t know he’d come back!”

Will stares hard at the ground as the first woman speaks again.

“Oh he’s back, and become quite the playboy from what I’ve heard. My daughter says he’s been here all summer throwing parties and leaving girls broken-hearted. Not that I’d ever let her _go_ to one of his parties, but I must admit I’m curious.”

“I heard he inherited everything when his uncle died,” the second woman says, and the first woman draws in a breath.

“ _Really_?” she whispers, “All of it?” The second woman hums.

“That’s what I heard. I heard Robertus didn’t leave anything for his wife. Not a dime. So all that money and the titles went to Hannibal.”

“Titles?” the first woman says, sounding somewhat breathless, and the second woman hums again.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” she asks in a sage tone. “He’s nobility in Europe.” The first woman lets out a shrill whistle, and Will’s fingers curl into fists at his sides. 

“ _Really_?” she says. “ _Well_ , if _that’s_ the case, maybe I _will_ let my daughter go to his parties!”

The women break into a fit of cawing laughter at her words, as though she has said something terribly clever, and Will fights to suppress the wave of nausea that is crawling up his throat.

He draws in a shaking breath and wonders what the hell Hannibal is doing here. He’d had the Primavera primed and ready to sail by three thirty, and by now Hannibal should have been long gone out onto the water. He wonders if he did something wrong, if there was some imperfection in his work that he overlooked and that sent Hannibal here to find him. He is so deeply mired in his thoughts that he pays no further mind to what the women are saying as the minutes pass and the line moves at a slow crawl, and when at last he is able to buy four bottles of soda he wanders back to the Foster’s blanket in a daze. Molly turns at the sound of his approach, and there is a strange tension in her eyes.

“Welcome back, Will,” she says, springing to her feet, and Will feels his mouth go dry at the sight of Hannibal’s long figure seated on the blanket. Hannibal glances back at him with an unreadable expression, and Will is barely aware of what’s happening when Molly slips three of the bottles from his hands. “Thanks so much for getting these,” she says, and she kisses his cheek. She hands two of the bottles to her father and mother and then settles back down, patting the empty space beside her. “You can sit here,” she says, and Will somehow manages to propel himself forward. Tension coats the air like a fog, and Will forces himself to look at Hannibal.

_He looks so out of place here_ , Will thinks.

Hannibal looks like an advertisement that somehow wandered into the real world, stark and unfitting in his crisp shirt and pressed pants, with his slicked back hair and dark sunglasses tucked into his breast pocket. His polished refinement stands out starkly against the Foster family’s brightly patterned blanket, against their faded cotton and comfortable denim, against the graceless but gentle ease of their company.

_For once_ , Will thinks, _Hannibal is the one who does not belong_.

For once, Hannibal is the lost thing stumbling around on the wrong side of the great glass doors.

“Is everything okay, Hannibal?” Will asks, tapping his fingers against his soda bottle. “Was something wrong with the Primavera?”

“The Primavera is wonderful, Will,” Hannibal says. “I simply decided I would enjoy watching the fireworks from Agawam Park instead.”

“Okay,” Will says slowly, and Molly’s father clears his throat.

“We were just telling Hannibal here there’s no hard feelings about you not helping out at the store anymore,” he says, and Molly’s face folds into a scowl. “We understand how important your work is over there at the Lecter place. Hell, there probably isn’t another man in this country that knows boats like you do!”

“But he’s good at other things too, isn’t he Dad?” Molly asks, her voice strained, and Will suddenly understands the source of the tension choking the air. “He doesn’t have to keep doing what he’s been doing just because it’s what he knows. He can do anything he wants.”

“Will has been living on my family’s estate for seventeen years, Miss Foster,” Hannibal says in a tight voice, “and I do not believe that at any point during those seventeen years he was ever under the impression that he can’t ‘do anything he wants’.”

“What are you talking about?” Molly asks, her face creasing and her eyes flashing. Will reaches out and touches her arm, but she ignores him. “You’ve been running him ragged all summer! Based on what I’ve seen, I bet he hasn’t even had time to _think_ about what he wants! And you make it sound like he has all the freedom in the world!”

“Do you consider yourself Will’s keeper, then?” Hannibal asks, his voice very low, and Will swallows around the lump in his throat. Molly’s parents glance at one another in his peripheral vision as Hannibal continues. “In that case, I would hope you have enough respect for Will to trust that if he ever has any concerns over his workload, or any concerns whatsoever about any aspect of his life with the Lecter family, that he would come to me himself to address them.”

Molly glares at Hannibal, her cheeks flushed and her expression thunderous. “Are you serious?” she cries. “If you talk half as much all the time as you have since you sat down on this blanket, I’d be surprised if Will could ever get a word in at all!”

Hannibal’s lips curl and his face darkens, and Will touches his fingers to Molly’s shoulder. “Molly, that’s enough,” he says quietly, and she turns to him with her brows creased.

“But Will, he’s-” she says, but Will shakes his head, and Molly’s father clears his throat again.

“Well would you look at that,” he says in a strained voice, “I think the fireworks are about to start!”

Molly continues to glare at Hannibal, but she doesn’t say anything else. Will moves his hand to the space between her shoulder blades, pressing his fingers against the muscles there and trying to get her to relax.

Explosions ring out moments later, and Will draws in an unsteady breath as the park is showered in dappled light. The crowd begins to cheer, but Will can’t bring himself to look at the display, attuned despite himself to the waves of tension emanating from Hannibal where he sits and stares up at the sky. The fireworks paint Hannibal’s body in a chiaroscuro of red and green and blue, as if he were lit by sunlight through a stained glass window. Will thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Several minutes pass this way, the air thick with cheers and light and the smoke from the fireworks, and suddenly Will has the strange feeling that he and Hannibal are alone on the blanket, that the rest of the world has fallen away and that it is just the two of them lit by the kaleidoscopic incandescence overhead. Hannibal shifts, his gaze moving slowly across the blanket, and Will wonders if maybe he feels it too. But then he’s startled by the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, and he has to turn away from Hannibal to look at Molly’s father, who is squeezing his shoulder and talking.

“Nothing like celebrating Independence Day with family, eh Willy?” he says, his smile kind, and the real world returns with a lurch: the sound of dogs barking, children laughing, the distant burst of black powder. No otherworldly scene at all, Will thinks, no solitude shaped for two, only the patterned blanket and the faint smell of sulfur. Hannibal rises to his feet in a swift movement, and Will resists the urge to reach for him. A nearby group shouts at him to sit back down and stop blocking the view, but Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice. The Fosters stare at him in shock, and Will stares at the surface of the blanket.

“I’m suddenly feeling very tired,” Hannibal says, his tone indecipherable. “It was wonderful meeting all of you, but I’m afraid I must leave.” He turns to Will then, and Will tightens his fingers around the soda bottle. “Do you need a ride home, Will?” Hannibal asks, and something in his voice, something in his use of the word _home_ makes Will want to say yes, makes Will want to follow him back to his car and climb into the passenger seat and ride into the darkness by his side. But he knows those thoughts are poison, so instead he stays silent, and Molly wraps her hand around his fingers and answers on his behalf.

“Don’t worry, we’ll make sure Will gets back safe,” she says, her voice still laced with venom, and Hannibal taps his fingers against his thigh.

“Wonderful,” he says, his face devoid of expression. “In that case, I’ll bid you all adieu. Happy Independence Day.”

Will doesn’t respond, and Hannibal walks away, and that seems to be the end of that. It’s only then that Will finally turns his face up to the sky to watch the fireworks as they splay themselves out in picturesque self-annihilation above him. But despite the bursts of light and color, despite the sound of laughter and the voices raised to sing the anthem, despite the fact that Molly has moved closer and wrapped her arm around his waist, the only thing that’s in Will’s mind is the sight of Hannibal’s back as it faded into the distance.

 


	4. Easy Solutions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks again to everyone who has kudosed and commented. I love hearing peoples' different takes on the story and what Hannibal and Will are doing, and your kind words make my day. So, thanks again! :)
> 
> A few notes about this chapter:
> 
> 1) The next chapter is the resolution, so we're in the home stretch of angst. Hang in there! Will and Hannibal will stop talking past each other and having two different conversations at once soon, I promise!  
> 2) CW for period-typical homophobia.  
> 3) Did I slip some obligatory canon references into this chapter? Why yes, yes I did.  
> 4) Will being horrible to Hannibal? In MY story? It's more likely than you think. And also it happens in this chapter. Enjoy >:)!  
> 

 

 

August 1965

 

 

Will waits until Hannibal’s birthday to tell him that he’s leaving. He knows how much time Hannibal spent planning the party; knows that the jazz band and the caterers and the bartenders have already arrived, knows that the seating arrangements have been finalized and the champagne bottles already put on ice. He knows that, compared to these pressing matters, the news of his engagement will be of minor importance, so he decides to tell Hannibal first thing in the morning and be done with it.

He finds Hannibal on the beach, his long figure like a sail amidst a sea of round tables. His golden skin is luminous in the crisp expanse of white cloth, his broad shoulders and lean waist a graceful silhouette against the rising sun. Will watches him lift a champagne glass into the sunlight, studying it with a critical eye. The glass looks delicate as spider web in his hand. For several moments Will is frozen, dumbstruck with longing, until at last he forces his feet to move, and he steers his own shabby craft through the wind-swept white sea.

“Hannibal,” he says, and he watches those long fingers tighten their grip.

“Good morning, Will,” he says after a moment, and Will watches him place the glass down and lift another. Will can’t bring himself to speak, so he swallows around the sudden dryness in his throat until Hannibal finally looks his way. “I don’t have any need of you today,” he says. “I take it then you must have need of me?”

Will clears his throat, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart in his ears. “Yeah, I… I need to talk to you,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’d spent the sleepless hours before dawn pacing up and down the beach, and he feels a surge of regret for not rinsing off before coming to speak to Hannibal. He is painfully aware of how out-of-place he is here, his skin coated with sweat and sand and his hair a riot of windswept curls. Across from him, Hannibal is pristine, not a single hair out of place, and Will feels like a dark smudge on all this white fabric, like an oil spill on this vast white sea. He can feel Hannibal watching him, but he doesn’t look up. At last, Hannibal turns and makes his way around the table, putting distance between them as he picks up another glass.

“Then by all means, Will,” he says coolly. “Talk.”

Will draws in a breath. He tells himself it’s now or never.

“I wanted to tell you that I’m leaving in two weeks,” he says, shifting his eyes to the nearest table setting and trying to ignore the sick churning in his stomach. His voice is surprisingly steady. “I thought about what you said on the Zephyrus, and you’re right. I can’t stay here forever. So I’m going to marry Molly Foster. We’re going to take over her father’s store.”

There is a sharp, crystalline snap, and Will looks up to see Hannibal placing a broken champagne glass on the table, its spindly stem a fractured edge. There is a line of blood trailing across his palm, dripping down onto an antique porcelain plate below, but Hannibal doesn’t seem to notice. He presses his palms against the table and doesn’t look at Will.

“And that is all you wish to say to me?” he asks after several moments, his voice pitched low, and Will swallows.

“I’ll have my things out of the cottage by September fifth,” he says, “and I’ll leave you a list of recommendations for someone who can replace me.” Hannibal drums his fingers in a quick tattoo against the tablecloth, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Someone who can replace you,” he repeats, and Will shifts on his feet, watching as a red bloom of blood unfurls like a peony beneath Hannibal’s hand.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “someone who can replace me.” Hannibal licks his lips.

“I am curious, Will, what criteria you intend to use to make that judgment,” he says. “You have been many things to me over the years, after all. Which version of yourself do you imagine you are trying to replicate?” He lifts his hands from the tablecloth at last, one palm a smear of red. “How many people do you imagine there are that could replace you?” Will digs his fingernails into his palms, feeling a surge of hurt and anger claw at his chest.

“I’m sure you’ll manage, Hannibal,” he bites out. “After all, I’ve really only ever been your _employee_.”

Hannibal’s face darkens, but any words he might have spoken are banished by the sudden appearance of the catering manager, who has come upon the table and noticed the broken glass and the blood.

“Oh, Mister Lecter, how awful!” he cries. “We’ll bring out a replacement for that place setting and change the tablecloth right away.” Hannibal doesn’t seem to hear him, still staring at Will as though he could bore holes into Will’s skull with his gaze, but Will hears him, and he takes it as his cue to leave.

“Look, I know you have a lot to do today, Hannibal,” he says, suddenly desperate to be done with this conversation, suddenly desperate to get away from white tablecloths and Limoges and spindly champagne glasses, from red blooms of blood and broad shoulders and invisible walls separating him from Hannibal as effectively as the great glass doors separate the house from the waterfront. Hannibal continues to stare at him, and the catering manager is looking between them with a bewildered expression, so Will clears his throat. “Happy birthday, Hannibal,” he says, stepping away from the table, “and, ah- good luck with everything. I’m sure it’ll be a great party.”

Hannibal’s face is a blank mask, so Will turns his back on it and walks away. As he makes his way back to the cottage, he forces himself not to wonder how Hannibal is taking the news; he forces himself to remember Hannibal has other things to do today, that he has much greater priorities to consider than the future Will has made for himself. He reminds himself that he should feel triumphant about what he has just done.

And yet, in some small part of him, Will is hurting. And he hopes that some small part of Hannibal is hurting too.

 

\---

 

1963

 

The three summers after 1959 were the happiest of Will’s life. The other seasons seemed to pass in a colorless haze, and Will would wait through the uncoiling of autumn into the long, frigid winter, through the slow but steady passage of winter into spring, until at last the lengthening of days heralded his love’s return like a distant ship on the horizon. And when Hannibal did return, it felt as if no time had passed at all: Hannibal would knock on Will’s cottage door after nightfall and the two of them would tumble into bed and spend the hours until sunrise coiled and panting in each other’s arms. The summer would stretch out endlessly before them, and Will found he did not resent the beautiful strangers who came to call during the day, the muted glimpses of the world beyond the great glass doors, so long as Hannibal spent the nights by his side. They were more careful, now, than they were that first summer, less reckless, but their caution did not cool their ardor. Hannibal came to the cottage every night, and whenever possible he invented reasons for Will to accompany him during the day. When they were alone together, Will would find himself spread out like a feast or folded in supplication beneath Hannibal’s questing hands, and by the time Hannibal was finished with him Will’s legs would shake and his body felt like it might float away. He learned the length and breadth of pleasure his body was capable of, and he wanted nothing and no-one else.

It felt as though Hannibal were an ocean, and that Will spent his days perpetually dripping in his waters. It felt as though Will's happiness could transmute his flesh to liquid, and that any moment he might be swept out to sea. Will could imagine no sweeter fate for himself.  

And if there were times when he wondered why it was that Hannibal only ever came to _him_ , why Hannibal was always sneaking himself _out_ of the great gray house instead of trying to sneak Will _in_ , why he only ever touched Will in hidden places like Will’s cottage or the back seats of empty cars, he told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself it didn’t matter that Hannibal lived a double life beyond the great glass doors, and that Will was not welcome in that other life. He told himself it didn’t matter, as long as he could have a place in one of Hannibal’s two worlds.

“Do you love me, Will?” Hannibal would ask, his face lit by moonlight through the old lace curtains in Will’s bedroom window.

“What do _you_ think?” Will would tease, and Hannibal would run his fingers through Will’s hair.

“I think I love you to distraction,” he would murmur, and Will would lick his lips with a coy grin.

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep distracting you,” he would say, and then he would move his lips to Hannibal’s mouth.

And so the summers passed like watercolors, painted by a loving hand. They passed in brushstrokes of sunlight and blue waves, of evening shadows and crooning music, of sweat and skin against faded sheets. They passed until April 1963, when a gleaming Bugatti pulled up the lane towards the great gray house, and the person inside announced their presence with all the rumbling ease of a coming storm.

Will knew nothing of the danger the Bugatti carried, and he felt a thrill of pure joy at the sight of it. He imagined Hannibal and Robertus had arrived earlier than planned, and he wondered if Hannibal was as anxious to see him as he was to see Hannibal. He guided his feet towards the great house as his heart did somersaults in his chest, and he resisted the urge to break into a run.

Will told himself there was nothing inappropriate about him greeting his employer and his employer’s nephew immediately upon their arrival, but in truth he knew it was a lie. He _knew_ it was inappropriate, but he also knew that Robertus would never suspect the real reason for Will’s eagerness. In Robertus’ eyes, Will was still the sad, skittish boy whose father had just been laid into the ground, and Will knew that he would merely pat Will’s shoulder with the smile of the benevolently oblivious and fuss over the removal of his luggage while Hannibal and Will undressed each other with their eyes. It had become a tradition in the years since 1959, and Will felt tendrils of anticipation curling in his chest at the thought of it happening again.

But when Will drew close to the house, and when he saw the car door open, it was not Robertus or Hannibal that emerged. It was a woman: a beautiful woman with long black hair coiled on her head like snakes, and whose pale, smooth face reminded Will of moonlight reflected on a still lake. Will stood frozen, embarrassed and confused, until she stood to her full height and stepped away from the car.

“Hello,” she said in a low, smooth voice.

“Hi,” Will managed, and the woman gave him a small smile.

“I am Lady Murasaki,” she said, tipping her head down gracefully as men emptied her bags from the car. “I am Robertus’ wife. He and Hannibal should arrive in a few weeks, but I decided to come early.”

Will stared at her. Robertus had a wife? He hadn’t known.

“And what is your name?” she asked him, when it became clear that Will wasn’t going to respond on his own.

“Ah, Will,” he finally managed, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring at her shoulder. “My name’s Will. I work for Robertus. I, ah, maintain the boats and the grounds here.” Murasaki’s face shifted at the sound of his name, but only for a moment before it returned to its placid-lake smoothness.

“So _you_ are Will,” she said. “Robertus has told me about you,” she observed, and Will faltered. What had Robertus told her? Hadn’t Hannibal ever mentioned him? Even once? But before he could respond, Murasaki spoke again. “I think you ought to get back to work, don’t you, Will?” she asked, and Will felt his stomach give a sick turn.

“Yeah,” he said softly, turning away, “yeah, of course.”

Will kept his distance from Lady Murasaki after that, skirting around the great gray house and avoiding her path on the rare occasions that she wandered out into the world on the other side of the great glass doors. He wondered what she was doing here, and he hoped that her presence wouldn’t change anything about his relationship with Hannibal, but otherwise his life remained largely unchanged. Meanwhile, Murasaki herself watched Will like a keen-eyed hawk, and she planned what she was about to do.

For while Murasaki’s face was new and unfamiliar to Will on that fateful morning in 1963, his own face had been known to her for years. She recognized him as Hannibal’s lover, as the young man she’d been seeking for nearly half a decade. She could not believe her luck.

She had watched her husband’s nephew for the past several winters, watched as he politely but resolutely spurned the advances of countless possible suitors, watched as he spent months staring forlornly out of windows, pressing out melancholy melodies on piano keys and generally behaving like a heartsick lover. She had broken into his room and found a lock of dark hair, a small length of rope tied into a sailing knot, and a small photograph of a strikingly beautiful young man smiling on the deck of a boat. She had found sketchbooks filled with the same face, and sheet music, and love letters, all inscribed with the same name: Will. She had found out Hannibal’s secret, and she had seen her plans for her future suspended on gossamer-thin thread above a yawning abyss.

For while Robertus was kind-hearted but oblivious, she saw what he did not: that his nephew was in love with another man, that he was meeting with family lawyers in an effort to secure his inheritance earlier than scheduled, and that he was merely tolerating his uncle’s dominion over his life until he could gain financial independence. She knew that as soon as Hannibal no longer had to rely on his uncle for money, he would find this ‘Will’ and enter into an arrangement with him that would bring the Lecter family into social ruin. Murasaki knew this, and she knew that she could not allow it to happen. For like Hannibal, she tolerated Robertus, but it was not love that compelled her to marry him. It was his name, and his money, and his titles, and she was not willing to let any of those be compromised by the actions of a foolish young man. Something must be done, she knew, and she must be the one to do it.

But she knew her husband’s nephew, knew his stubbornness and pride, how closely he guarded his secrets, and she knew there would be no talking _him_ out of his plans. If something were to change, she knew, she would have to find this ‘Will’. She knew better than to ask Robertus, certain that Hannibal would catch wind of her questioning and lock himself down even further than was his natural disposition, so she ensured that all of her searching was done covertly. She looked for Will amongst Hannibal’s acquaintances on the Continent, scanned every dinner party, every cocktail hour, every social luncheon for his face. She trailed after Hannibal in the moments when he sought solitude, kept an eye on his outgoing correspondence, and ensured that the phone company sent her monthly records of all household calls. However, despite her vigilance, none of her efforts bore fruit. She spent years looking for Will without success, and she had nearly given up hope of ever finding him, until one day she stepped out of the car on Robertus’ American estate and found herself face-to-face with the fine-featured, fey-eyed beauty she’d been hunting all these years. Of all places, she had not expected to find him _here_ : had expected him to be a wealthy aristocrat, a foppish dandy who spent his days soaked in alcohol and pleasure, not one of her husband’s _hired help_ who spent his days doing manual labor. Somehow, the knowledge of Will’s situation made Hannibal’s attachment to him feel even more inappropriate to Murasaki, but she took comfort in the fact that she now knew how easy it would be to separate them.

And so she waited several weeks, until mere days before Robertus and Hannibal were scheduled to arrive, before deciding that the time had come at last for her to tear Will’s world apart. She invited Will to join her in the great gray house for afternoon tea, and she surveyed her battleground as her opponent made his way onto the field. She watched as the young man passed through the great glass doors with a look of nervous awe, watched as he sat stiffly on the ornate sofa, and watched as his hands shook when he picked up a fragile teacup.

_This will be even easier than I anticipated,_ she thought, and she decided she had better get straight to the point.

“Will, what do you imagine are Hannibal’s intentions towards you?” she asked, and she watched as the young man’s winsome face turned a sickly shade of gray.

“What? I don’t- how do-” he managed, until Murasaki raised a hand.

“Calm yourself,” she said, in a voice she believed passed for kind. “I am here to warn you, not to threaten you. Unlike my husband, I am well aware of how… _intimately_ you and Hannibal know each other,” she said, and she watched as the young man before her set his teacup back on the coffee table with a clatter. “I’ve brought you here because I think you deserve to know the truth.”

“The truth...?” Will asked slowly, his brows creasing in confusion, and Murasaki allowed her mouth to twist in feigned sympathy.

“The truth is that despite what you may believe you know of him, my husband’s nephew is a cruel, selfish young man,” she said flatly, taking a sip of her own tea. “When you first introduced yourself, I knew your name, because I have heard it before. I have heard my husband’s nephew speak of you, and I have spent the last several weeks trying to figure out the best way to tell you so. After much consideration, I have come to the conclusion that there is no way to do it that will not be painful for you, so I decided to simply tell you directly.”

Will’s face tightened, and Murasaki watched as stark lines marred the space between his dark eyebrows and a frown pulled at the edges of his pretty lips. She drew in a breath and continued.

“When Hannibal spoke of you, it was always to tell his peers how easy it was to get you into bed,” she said bluntly. “I believe the word he used was ‘cheap.’ My husband’s nephew is… profligate in his amorous pursuits, and when I heard him speaking of you to his friends, laughing about how you believed his vows of eternal love and other such nonsense, I resolved to end his childish game myself should I ever have the chance to meet you.”

Will was utterly silent, his eyes now wide as saucers and his lips slightly parted. _He really is remarkably beautiful_ , Murasaki thought, and she commended Hannibal for his taste.

“Whatever Hannibal told you in the past was a lie,” she continued. “He does not take you seriously as a lover, nor does he think of you as an equal. He would never consider attaching himself to a person so far below his social station, nor would Robertus allow it. The… intimacy between you only ever occurred because you were nearby, and were an easy outlet for Hannibal to fulfill his…” she allowed herself a delicate pause for effect, “...carnal appetites without fear of consequence.”

Will’s feet had begun to bob relentlessly against the polished wood floor, and his fingers were white where they clenched the tops of his thighs. He was staring hard at the coffee table, blinking rapidly and biting his lip.

“Will?” Murasaki asked delicately after several moments of silence. “Have you heard what I’ve said?”

“Was there anything else you needed to tell me?” he asked abruptly, his voice shaking, and Murasaki sighed.

“Only that I would advise you not to mention our conversation to Hannibal,” she said calmly. “He dislikes me, and would tell you that I’m lying. For the sake of your own dignity, and to spare both of us a great deal of unpleasantness, please: keep what I’ve told you to yourself.”

“Yeah,” Will said, nodding jerkily, and Murasaki saw that he was on the verge of tears, his fey eyes gleaming and moisture beading in his dark lashes, “yeah, okay.”

“You have my sympathy,” she said. “You are not the first person to have their heart broken by husband’s nephew, and I fear you will not be the last. I am sorry I could not tell you sooner.” Will licked his lips and let out a choked sound.

“That’s - you- thank you,” he said, and Murasaki leaned back in her chair.

“That was all I needed to discuss with you, Will,” she said gently, keeping her voice low. “You can go now.” Will rose to his feet with a lurch, and Murasaki watched as his shins knocked against the coffee-table, upending his delicate teacup and sending it to the ground with a crash. He froze, and for several moments he stared at the shattered pieces as though he could not comprehend what he was seeing. Silent tears rolled down his face. “I’ll have the maids clean that up,” Murasaki said carefully. “Don’t let it trouble you.”

The young man cast one last look in her direction, his eyes wet, before he stumbled across the living room and out through the great glass doors, and Murasaki let out a sigh of relief as the doors closed behind him. The room was left still in his wake, silent except for the thrum of the waves in the distance, and Murasaki poured herself more tea, and she smiled the smile of one who has accomplished a goal that was many years in the making.

And she was right to applaud herself, for her efforts had been more successful than even she could have imagined. When Will left her at the great gray house, he staggered back to his cottage as a man whose world had fallen apart around him, and he collapsed on his kitchen floor the moment he snapped the door shut behind him. His mind was a storm, a riot of heartbreak and betrayal; his thoughts were a buzzing drone of memories and warnings, and above them all the sound of his inner voice was whispering: _You knew better, you knew better, all these years, you_ knew _better_.

Will wrapped his arms around his chest and remembered the countless times he’d convinced himself that Hannibal loved him, actively deluded himself into believing that his devotion was enough to satisfy a man who could have anything, or anyone, he wanted.

He remembered the countless times he’d asked Hannibal about his months away and Hannibal had told him there was nothing worth telling.

He remembered the countless times Hannibal had kissed his lips and told him “There is no-one, Will, no-one else on Earth for me but you.”

He remembered his own voluntary blindness, the years he spent ignoring his father’s warnings and the sound of his own inner voice telling him that he wasn’t proper company for Hannibal, that Hannibal would leave him when he got the chance, and that he had no-one, no-one in the whole wide world who truly loved him.

He remembered the countless times he had known, deep down, that his father had been right all along.

Will felt as though his heart were that teacup, cracked open and shattered into pieces on the floor. Every time he took a breath, sharp edges pierced him, and sent him into another fit of weeping.

_What did you expect?_ He asked himself. _What did you honestly think would happen? How long did you think any of this would last? You lied to yourself for years, why would you possibly think Hannibal wouldn’t lie to you too?_

Pain, hurt, and betrayal coiled together in his chest, taking root in the empty place where his heart used to be, and Will pressed his forehead against the cool floor. He felt as though he had been gutted, as though his torso had been split open and the innermost parts of him were bleeding out onto the floor. Despite everything, some small part of him still whispered that maybe he was wrong, that maybe Hannibal did love him, but Will knew that voice would only bring him heartbreak, so he tamped it down until it was only a faint murmur, and he listened instead to the voice reminding him that everything Hannibal had ever told him was a lie.

_What am I going to do_ , he asked himself, _what am I going to do?_

He lost track of how many hours he spent that way, sobbing in a heap by the doorway, until at last he fell asleep on the cracked linoleum and woke to find that his back ached and his eyes were dry. He found that he had wept out every ounce of sadness and heartbreak in his body, and all that was left in him was anger. He found that he knew what he was going to do.

Hannibal had lied to him. Hannibal had hidden things from him. Hannibal had made him a pawn without telling him the rules of the game. Will decided he would reciprocate in kind.

When Robertus and Hannibal finally arrived several days later, Will did not go to meet them. He did not look at Hannibal when their paths crossed, and he did not acknowledge his greetings or respond to any of his questions. When Hannibal tried to touch him, Will rebuffed his advances with a shove, and he ignored every attempt Hannibal made to get his attention. When Hannibal pounded on his cottage door that night Will ignored him, pressing his pillow over his head and drowning out the sound of Hannibal talking himself hoarse into the small hours of the morning. He wasn’t going to fall for Hannibal’s tricks again.

Will did the same thing the next day, and the next day, and the next day and the next day and then the day after that, until at last one afternoon Hannibal cornered him against a boat shed and Will ended things between them once and for all.

“Will, what’s wrong?” Hannibal asked, his face flushed and his eyes bright. His facade of alarm and confusion was so convincing that Will almost believed him.

“Don’t touch me Hannibal,” he bit out, and he shoved Hannibal’s hands away where they tried to grasp at his waist.

“Will, what happened?” Hannibal said, following him. “Has someone found out about us? If they’ve tried to tell you what we’re doing is wrong, I can assure you that-”

“Hannibal,” Will snapped, turning to face him. “I don’t know how to make this more clear to you: _I want you to leave me the fuck alone_.” Hannibal’s face creased, and his veneer of surprise was so convincing that Will felt a thrill of scorching anger. How dare he? How dare he continue to lie to Will’s face? Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, but Will cut him off. “It doesn’t matter _why_ I want it,” he bit out, “all that matters is that I want it. So I’ll say it again: _leave me the fuck alone_.”

Hannibal’s fingers splayed out at his sides, and his face creased. “Will-” he said, but Will met his gaze, and something in his eyes made Hannibal stop, made him shift his shoulders and press his lips together, made him fold his fingers into fists. “Will,” he said, but his voice had changed, become deeper, become harder around the edges. Will drew in a breath, and at last his lips formed the words his mind had been shaping since he’d learned the truth from Murasaki.

“I’m not going to miss you, Hannibal,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to find you, I’m not going to look for you. I don’t want to know where you are or what you do. I don’t want to think about you anymore.”

Hannibal stiffened, and for a moment it looked like he was going to speak, but he didn’t. Instead he stared at Will with a face suddenly devoid of expression, and his continued silence told Will everything he needed to know. It told him that Hannibal finally understood what had happened, that Hannibal finally realized Will had learned the truth.

_Of course he has nothing to say_ , Will thought, _now that he can’t lie to me anymore._

“Goodbye, Hannibal,” Will said, his lips forming each syllable clearly and calmly. And then he turned his back and walked away.

Hannibal left the estate several days later, apparently seeing no reason to stay now that he could no longer take advantage of easy access to Will’s body. Will watched as Hannibal was driven away in the Bugatti that brought Lady Murasaki several weeks before, and he reminded himself how to breathe. _Good_ , he thought, _good_ , ignoring the sharp edges of his shattered heart where they pressed against his chest, ignoring the perpetual nausea curdling his stomach, ignoring the fact that the ground seemed unsteady beneath him. He would move on from Hannibal, he told himself, as easily as Hannibal had moved on from him. The next time he crossed paths with Lady Murasaki she gave him an approving nod, but he stayed away from the great house after that. He told himself it was what he should have done from the beginning.

The rest of the summer passed in a haze, each day blurring into the next, and Will remembered little of it besides the sleepless nights he spent staring up into the darkness and feeling like his broken heart was trying to climb out through his throat. Murasaki and Robertus left as planned in September, and it was the last Will saw of any of the Lecters for two years.

 

\---

 

July 1965

 

Will’s fingers are slick with oil, and he feel his brows crease as he studies the engine beneath him. It is broken, and he is desperate to fix it.

There’s no real urgency to the task, as the boat is old and small and not one that Hannibal has requested to take out, but for some reason the broken engine weighs heavily on Will’s mind. It scrapes away at the edges of his thoughts, and it infects his dreams. He can’t figure out what’s wrong with it, and he doesn’t like problems that don’t have solutions. He doesn’t like finding himself powerless in the face of complications that he can’t understand. And so Will had found himself making his way through the darkness to this dry-docked boat, curling himself around its engine and trying to puzzle out its secrets. He forces himself to take his time with it, to close his eyes and immerse himself in the various components, combing through mechanical diagrams in his mind and trying to pinpoint the source of the problem. It’s past midnight, and he can hear the sounds of merrymaking and debauchery drifting towards him from the beach. He fights to tune it out, to clear his mind of everything except himself and this simple problem of mechanics. He draws in a deep breath and counts to three. This should be an easy fix, shouldn’t it?

He hears the sound of approaching footsteps, hears the quiet sounds of breath and the soft thud of feet hitting the deck, but he keeps his eyes closed. There’s only one person it could be, and that person won’t be any help in solving the problem at hand. All that person will do is force the coiling mass of Will’s conflicting emotions to claw at his throat, to wrench at his chest and try to force its way out into the open air. He will only make it worse.

“Good evening, Will,” Hannibal says, and Will resolutely keeps his eyes closed.

“Hello, Hannibal,” he responds, and he listens as Hannibal settles down nearby. Every conversation Will has had with Hannibal since the Fourth of July left him feeling like he’d traversed a minefield of his own making, and he suspects this one will be much the same.

“Working on the Zephyrus?” Hannibal asks, his tone neutral. “I wonder why you bother. My uncle should have sold the thing years ago.”

Will’s eyes spring open at this, and he feels a sharp prick of pain in his chest at Hannibal’s easy dismissal. This boat has always been his favorite, small and unremarkable but sturdy and reliable. What it lacked in flash it always made up for in comfort and familiarity, and the fact that Hannibal writes it off so easily sits like a lump in Will’s throat.

“My job is to keep all the boats running, Hannibal,” he says quietly, “even the ones that aren’t up to your standards.” He doesn’t look at Hannibal, but he sees him stiffen in his peripheral vision.

“I wouldn’t dare fault you on your work ethic,” Hannibal says slowly, and Will withholds a bitter laugh.

_Yes you most certainly would,_ he thinks, remembering their conversation in Robertus’ library.

“However, I would ask why you’re working on it now, of all times,” Hannibal continues, and Will licks his lips.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says curtly, and Hannibal shifts, placing his elbows on cross-legged knees and leaning closer.

“And why is that?” he asks. “Is the party keeping you awake?” Will can’t prevent himself from turning to Hannibal, feeling a scowl settle over his face at the subtle hopefulness in his tone.

“No,” he says sharply, “I’m used to it. I don’t even notice them anymore.” Hannibal lets out a quiet sound and straightens again, and Will looks back down at the motor. Silence settles between them, and in the distance Will can hear the laughter and cheers of the partygoers, many of whom sound as if they are well past the point of untidy drunkenness.

_No wonder Hannibal left_ , Will thinks. In all the years that Will has known Hannibal, in all the years that Will has seen him indulge in liquor and wine beyond measure, he has never once seen Hannibal drunk. He thinks the world would have to end before Hannibal would be driven to such uncouth behavior.

“Do you think much about the future, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will supresses a sigh.

_Do I think about the future?_ he asks himself, staring at his fingers where they’re entwined with the engine. _How could I, when I feel like all I ever do is live in the past?_

“No,” he says softly. “Do you?”

“Oh, often,” Hannibal replies. “I think of the places I’ll visit, the houses I’ll build, the seas I’ll traverse. It seems unbearable to imagine staying in one place forever.”

Will thinks of his own quiet, secluded life, the borders of his world that start at the Lecter estate and end at Foster’s Five and Dime. He stays silent.

“Don’t you think so, Will?” Hannibal asks quietly, as if hoping to coax a reaction from him. “Doesn’t that seem unbearable?”

Will swallows down the acrid taste of his bitterness and continues to stare at his hands.

_What’s bearable has never mattered in my life_ , he thinks, _the only thing that’s mattered is learning to play the hand I was dealt._

“When you think of yourself in the future, Will, what do you see?” Hannibal continues, seemingly encouraged by Will’s silence. “Will you allow yourself to stay here on my family's estate forever, wasting your life on mediocre company and problems with easy solutions?”

Will’s stomach feels like a churning engine of its own, pistons chugging and oily smoke leaking out into his chest. He can’t tell whether what he feels is greater parts sadness or anger: anger that Hannibal so easily undermines everything about the life he has built in the last two years, or sadness at the knowledge that Hannibal is right. He doesn’t love Molly, not really, and he knows that she and her family will never be enough to fill the void that Hannibal left in his life. He knows that the work he does is not fulfilling, knows that a part of him will always yearn for worlds beyond the one he’s known since he was a child.

And, beneath all that, he knows that part of him will always yearn to live his life with Hannibal by his side. He suspects that Hannibal knows this too. But why is Hannibal bothering to point it out? What could Hannibal’s goal possibly be for saying these things if not to hurt him?

“What do you think, Will?” Hannibal asks, his voice barely above a whisper, and somewhere in Will’s engine, a piston grinds to a halt. He can’t do this anymore.

“I think you flaunting all your riches and golden opportunities in my face doesn’t change a damn thing,” Will bites out, and he sees Hannibal stiffen in his peripheral vision. “I think your life will be one long, luxurious adventure, and I think that’s fucking great, Hannibal, but I don’t think it has anything to do with me. So, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone and let me get back to work.”

A heavy silence settles over them, and Will leans back over the engine, pretending to focus on the mass of metal beneath him, until at last he hears Hannibal let out a long breath.

“Very well, Will,” he says, his tone returned to glacial coolness. He rises to his feet, and Will stiffens when Hannibal looms over him. “Best get some rest,” he says. “I suspect the beach will be a mess, and I’d like it cleaned before sunrise.”

Will says nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on his hands and sitting still and silent until Hannibal’s footsteps fade away into the distance. Only then does he let out the breath he’s been holding and withdraw his hands from the engine. Hannibal is right, he knows. He _does_ need to think about his future, especially now that a precedent has been set for Hannibal to return to the Hamptons in the summer months. How long can Will bear to keep this up? Can he bear it next year, and the next year, and the year after that? Can he bear it when Hannibal gets married, and starts bringing his wife to the estate? Starts bringing his children? Will’s stomach lurches violently at the thought, and he draws his knees up to his chest and rakes his fingers through his hair, forgetting all about the engine oil there.

_How much longer?_ He wonders. _How much longer can I keep living the life I’ve been living on the slim chance that someday Hannibal will actually want me back?_

Will stares down at his bent knees, and in a quiet moment of reflection everything becomes clear to him. The day is never going to come when Hannibal falls to his knees and begs for Will’s forgiveness. The day is never going to come when Hannibal admits to his lies but confesses he has loved Will all along. That day, the day Will has never allowed himself to think about yet has been silently yearning for for two years, is never going to come, and Will can’t keep waiting for it. He can't keep stringing himself along, falling prey to delusions like he did on the Fourth of July. It’s been two years, and Hannibal has clearly moved on. It’s time for Will to move on too.

And it will be easy, Will realizes, to extricate himself from Hannibal completely. There is already a life waiting for him, after all: a new home and a ready-made family on the other side of his own glass door. All he has to do is accept it.

Will taps his fingers against the sides of his knees and draws in a deep breath. He makes his decision. He’s going to talk to Molly. He’s going to leave his past, all of the tangled, clustered, knotted sadness and longing and hope and betrayal, behind him. He’s going to make a new life in a place where the great glass doors hold no dominion. He’s going to close his own door on Hannibal, for the first and last time.

When Will lets out his breath and looks back at the engine, everything clicks into place in his mind. He realizes, suddenly, what is wrong with it, and with his mind clear and his plan in place he sets about fixing it. His fingers are sure and steady, his movements precise, and two hours later the Zephyrus hums to life beneath him just as the last of the partygoers finally stumble their way off the beach and back to the great gray house. Overhead, the moon bears silent witness, and Will thinks he can see storm clouds gathering in the distance. He decides not to pay them any mind.

 


	5. Learning to See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry it took me a while to get this chapter to you - life came at me fast over the past couple of weeks so I didn't have much time to write, and this chapter is a bit of a beast so it took me longer than usual. That being said, it's here now, and I hope you enjoy it! :)
> 
> I have added another chapter to the overall count because I plan to post an epilogue next week. It will give you a chance to see where Will and Hannibal are eight years after the events of this story, and it will also include Hannibal's POV, which I had a lot of fun writing. So look for that soon if you're interested, but rest assured that this chapter is the conclusion of the events of the story.
> 
> The only note I have for this chapter is a CW for references to period-typical homophobia. Thanks again to everyone who has read and commented - your feedback has meant so much to me, and I can't thank you all enough for it. I have read a lot of Hannigram fic so I know how many great writers are out there in the fandom, and I really appreciate that you took the time to read my story too. 
> 
> Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy the over-the-top drama-fest end to this over-the-top drama-fest story :).

 

 

September 1965

 

 

Hannibal leads Will through the chapel with a hand on his elbow and a grace that parts the crowd like a sea.

Will can see that peoples’ mouths are moving, can see that peoples’ hands are reaching out for him as they pass, but he does not pay them any mind. Hannibal deflects their assault like rainwater, brushing them aside until they are nothing more than smeared watercolor against the white walls of the church. When they step out through the double doors, the doors where, in another world, Will would have emerged with Molly as his bride, Will looks up and sees that trees are stirring in a restless wind, that dark clouds are rolling in on the horizon. Soon, he knows, there will be rain, washing all of this away.

Will breathes in the scent of ozone, and he feels the touch of a moisture-soft breeze on his skin as he slides into the passenger seat of Hannibal’s parked car. Hannibal drives them home with the windows open, at speeds well above the legal limit, and cool air whips through their hair and jackets. Will watches as the sky above them darkens, as the road and trees and ocean are cast in the otherworldly blue-gray glow that precedes an autumn storm, and when Hannibal cuts the engine outside the great gray house Will feels as though they have passed into another world.

“There are so many things I wish to say to you, Will,” Hannibal says, “I find I hardly know where to begin.”

Will knows that Hannibal is exhausted, knows he is still fraught with confusion about what happened in the chapel, but he finds he cannot help but smile.

“Mind if I start instead?” he asks, and Hannibal tilts his head.

“By all means,” he replies.

Will wants to slide closer. He wants to wrap his fingers around Hannibal’s waist, he wants to tuck his face into the space where Hannibal’s neck meets his shoulder and press his teeth against the flesh there. He wants to drown himself in Hannibal’s touch, to breathe in Hannibal’s scent until he’s drunk with it. But he resists the urge. Touching can wait, he tells himself. He has a whole lifetime, now, to touch Hannibal. First, there are things that need to be said.

“Can we speak plainly?” he asks, and Hannibal’s brows crease.

“I always speak plainly, with you,” he replies.

“Why do you think I rejected you?” Will asks, and Hannibal swallows.

“You told me your reasons for rejecting me didn’t matter,” he says. “You said that the only thing that mattered was that you _had_ rejected me.” Will runs a hand through his hair, cursing his own cruelty, his own remarkable capacity to hurt.

“Forget what I said,” he urges. “I was wrong. Please, tell me why you think I did it.” Hannibal draws in a breath, and he looks down at his long fingers where they rest against the steering wheel.

“At the time, I thought that someone must have found out about us. That they had convinced you to reject me because our union was ‘immoral’. But then, as years passed, I began to wonder if you rejected me instead for all the things I could not give you.”

“Things you couldn’t give me?” Will repeats, scarcely able to comprehend what he is hearing.

“Indeed,” Hannibal says. “Your engagement to Miss Foster seemed to confirm it. She offered you what I could not: a family. She gave you a surrogate mother and father, aunts and uncles and cousins...” he draws in an unsteady breath, “and the possibility of children. You were all the family I needed in the world, Will. But I came to understand that you might not feel the same.”

Will thinks of the past five months, of the hedonism and debauchery that Hannibal spread out like a tapestry over endless nights and days. He thinks of the moonlit trysts with beautiful strangers, the expensive meals and bottles of champagne, the parties and the boat rides, the ease and luxury of Hannibal’s life writ large everywhere that Will looked. He thinks of the cruel and dismissive orders, the thinly-veiled jabs at Will’s status as an _employee_. And he understands, now, why Hannibal did it. Not to taunt Will with reminders of all the things he couldn’t have, but to lure him back with the promise of things he _could_ , if he would only change his mind.

Like Will, Hannibal is capable of great cruelty when trying to get what he wants.

Like Will, he did not understand that he alone would always be enough.

“Oh, Hannibal,” Will murmurs, his voice very soft, “that wasn’t it at all.” Will can hear a gentle rumbling of thunder far off in the distance, and this time he can’t resist the urge to slide over in his seat, to reach out and touch Hannibal’s face. Hannibal stiffens under his fingers, and he does not meet his gaze.

“The last time you did this to me, Will, you had your way with me and left without explanation,” he observes. “Are you going to do that again?”

Will skims his fingers over Hannibal’s high cheekbones, down over his cheeks and to his soft, bowed lips. “No, Hannibal,” he says. “I’m not going to leave you again.” Hannibal is still tense under Will’s touch, his expression strained, and he clears his throat.

“You said your reasons for rejecting me two years ago did not matter, and I accepted that. I still do. But I must ask: do you still feel the same now as you did then, Will? Will you continue to play games with me?”

Will sighs. “No, Hannibal. I don’t feel the same, and I’m not interested in playing games with you,” he says, and he turns his gaze to the fabric of Hannibal’s suit jacket. He spreads it open with slow and careful movements, and he loosens Hannibal’s tie with gentle, cautious fingers. He can hear Hannibal’s breath grow short, can feel the waves of heat emanating from Hannibal’s skin, and he begins to pull at his top buttons until Hannibal moves, grasping Will’s wrists and stilling his hands in their movement.

“Why have you changed your mind, Will?” he asks, and Will meets his gaze. Cinnamon and golden butter, the most beautiful color in the world.

“Your Aunt Murasaki told me you were lying to me,” he says. “She told me you took all sorts of people to bed when you were in Europe and told them all about your cheap trick back in the States.” Hannibal’s fingers tighten around his wrists, and his eyes flash.

“ _Will_ ,” he murmurs. “Will.” And, despite himself, Will feels his eyes fill with tears. He knows that world is behind him now, he knows that he will never go back to it, but he cannot suppress a wave of hurt at the memory. Outside, he can hear the wind growing stronger, but in the shelter of the car he and Hannibal are immune to it.

“I didn’t want to believe her, but I couldn’t help it,” he says. “You have to understand: my entire life, I heard the same thing from everyone about you. That you’d outgrow me, that you’d get bored with me, that you’d leave me behind and never look back. That you’d find someone more _appropriate_. You lived in a totally different world, Hannibal, and you only crossed over into mine when it was convenient for you. You had a whole second life, but I was always here. You were my whole world, but every time I had to watch you go through those patio doors it was like I lost you again. So when your aunt told me it was all a game to you, what reason did I have not to believe her?”

“ _Will_ ,” Hannibal says, and something within him seems to break. He slides his hands from Will’s wrists to grasp at his waist, pulling him into his lap and pressing kisses to his face. “My aunt was a lying, grasping, thieving _wretch_ ,” he says, “who married my uncle for his money and his name. Every word she spoke to you was a lie meant to further her own ends.”

“I know that now,” Will says, trying not to feel overwhelmed by Hannibal’s scent, trying to resist the urge to tuck himself against Hannibal’s broad shoulders and never move again for the rest of his life, “I spent a lot of time thinking about it, and I realized what she said couldn’t be true. But if you meant it when you said you wanted us to be together, why did you always leave? You turned 18 years ago. You didn’t have to keep going back to Europe with your uncle every winter.”

Hannibal’s hands find their way up Will’s back, stroking at his shoulders and pressing Will close against his chest.

“Under American law I gained independence from my uncle when I turned 18,” he says, “but under my parent’s will I didn’t gain legal majority until I turned 25. I was waiting, Will. I tried to secure my inheritance earlier, but my parent’s will was ironclad.” Hannibal pulls him closer. “I suspect Murasaki caught wind of my plans,” he says slowly, “and that was why she sought you out.” His fingers tighten against Will’s waist, and he presses his lips against Will’s hair. “My only consolation for her cruelty to you is that I thwarted her plans anyway. I could not change my parent’s will with regards to my inheritance, but I convinced our family lawyers to ensure no money would pass to her in the event of my uncle’s death.”

Tears begin to stream down Will’s face, tears of anger at Murasaki, tears of sadness at the wasted years, tears of relief that he had been wrong all along. They run down his face like rain, and he lets out a rough laugh against the skin of Hannibal’s neck.

“So Murasaki decided to take out the trash before the smell drew the wrong kind of attention?” he asks, and Hannibal stiffens. He presses his hand against the back of Will’s head and shifts him so their gazes meet.

“Will,” he says, and his eyes are fierce, “do not speak of yourself that way. If I had known you felt like this, I would have left this place with you as soon as we turned 18. When my family died I learned to live with nothing, Will, and I would do it again without question if that was the price of your love. You are the only thing in my life I truly value, Will. Do you understand?” he asks, and Will lets out a shaking breath and nods, feeling like his heart is a kite on a string in his chest.

“Hannibal,” he says, “how could I have been so stupid?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hannibal murmurs, and he cups Will’s face in his long fingers. “All that matters is where we go from here. I want you to stay with me, Will. I don’t care where we go or how we live, as long as you are by my side. I will do anything you wish, and everything that I have will be yours, as long as you promise not to reject me again. Can you promise me that, Will?” he asks, and Will feels his face curl into a teary-eyed smile.

Hannibal studies him for several moments, and then a smile spreads across his own features as well. Hannibal’s face is soft, his eyes are warm and shining, and Will feels like he is staring at the sun.

“I haven’t seen that smile in years, Will,” Hannibal says quietly. “I’d almost forgotten how beautiful it is. I think I’ll remember this one forever.”

“God, Hannibal,” Will manages to say, through tears and laughter and a happiness that threatens to bubble up out of his throat like sparkling wine, “I won’t shut you out again, I promise.”

“And I promise you the same,” Hannibal says, and this time he presses a kiss to Will’s lips, and Will threads his fingers through Hannibal’s hair and accepts his kiss like communion. “I promise to love, honor, and cherish you, Will, until death do us part,” Hannibal says breathlessly against his lips. “And even then, if there is another world after this one, I will find you there. No church may recognize our union, but the only opinion I care about is yours. Do you accept me, Will?” he asks, and Will nods.

“Yes, Hannibal,” he says through his tears, and he presses a kiss to Hannibal’s high cheekbone, to his ear, to the place where his jaw meets his throat. “I accept you. Love, honor, and cherish. Til death do us part.”

“In parts of Medieval Europe, a marriage was considered binding as soon as a couple made love after saying yes,” Hannibal says, pressing a kiss to the skin of Will’s neck. “May I take you to bed, Will?” he asks, his fingers gently pressing at Will’s sides, and Will begins to laugh.

“ _God_ , yes,” he breathes. “Hannibal, _yes_ ,” he says, and as he speaks the sky above them opens up, and their world is washed in cooling rain.

“Do you trust me, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will nods.

“Yes, Hannibal,” he says, “more than anything. _Yes_.”

So Will does not startle when Hannibal opens the car door. He does not protest when Hannibal slips his arms around his limbs and rises to stand, carrying Will in his arms like a bride. Will simply laughs, and sputters when his mouth fills with water, and he lets himself be baptized by the autumn storm. He lets himself be carried around the house and to the patio, right up to the great glass doors, and when he realizes what Hannibal is going to do his eyes fill with tears.

“Hannibal,” he says, his voice shaking, and Hannibal opens the doors without releasing him.

“There are no doors between us, Will,” Hannibal tells him, “not these, or any others.”

And Will finds he cannot resist the urge to kiss him, cannot suppress the warmth that is blooming in his stomach and spreading out to suffuse his every limb. He is drunk on his own happiness, drunk on his love for Hannibal, and he lets Hannibal carry him through the great glass doors and over the threshold into the great gray house as if it were their wedding day. He cannot comprehend how mere weeks ago he thought that he could live without this; he cannot comprehend how his anger and betrayal had so utterly warped his perception of the very best thing in his life.

Hannibal carries him through the living room, where years ago Will had sat on the ornate sofa and had afternoon tea with Lady Murasaki. He carries Will down the long hallway, where years ago Will had trailed after Robertus as he tried to come to terms with his father’s death. He carries Will up the wide stairs, lit now by the otherworldly blue-gray glow of an autumn storm, and to the doorway of his bedroom, where months before Will had stood outside with his heart in his throat and tried to work up the courage to knock about a missing key.

Hannibal spreads Will out on the wide bed with gentle fingers, and Will think about the last time he saw this room, how it had been occupied by one of Hannibal’s beautiful strangers. He thinks about how many times he has imagined what Hannibal must look like in this bed, coursing over his lovers like a tide, moving like a sea in the moon-lit darkness. He thinks about how often he has stared out his little cottage window at the moon far in the distance and wondered whether Hannibal was looking at the same moon, sprawled out like a prince on this very bed.

Will never thought he’d get the chance to sleep in this bed himself, and he feels his breath draw short in his chest, feels his heart thunder in his throat. Hannibal is watching his face with rapt attention, his brows creased in concern, and Will reaches out to touch his face. Hannibal’s tie is still loose, the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, his hair wet and tousled and his golden skin flushed with rain.

“I love you,” Will says abruptly, scarcely aware that he is speaking the words, “I don’t think I ever said it enough. I was too afraid. But God, I love you. I always have. Hannibal, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

And Hannibal presses gentle fingers to his lips, and he shakes his head.

“Never apologize, Will,” he murmurs. “Not to me.”

And then he is kissing Will with all the tenderness and care, all the love and attention, that was missing from their embrace on the beach two weeks before. Their hands move over each other slowly, carefully, pressing suit jackets aside, unbuttoning shirts, slipping legs free of trousers and cocks free of undergarments. And then they are naked, skin to skin, and all is silent except for the sound of their breath and the syrupy thrum of the rain. Hannibal is pressing kisses to Will’s neck, his fingers pressing trails down Will’s arms and torso, his tongue tasting wide swaths of Will’s skin.

“I missed this taste,” he murmurs, and Will lets out a quiet moan. “I thought about you so often these past years, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, “every time I touched another person, I thought of you.”

“So did I,” Will groans, and Hannibal hums against his skin.

“I imagined you coming apart with pleasure,” he says. “I imagined the look on your face when it becomes too much for you to bear. You are a marvel, Will. A revelation.” Hannibal is looking at him with eyes so bright they seem to glow, and Will cannot help but smile. He knows, now, what Hannibal sees. He knows that he means what he says. “After my family died I thought my heart froze,” Hannibal continues, and Will cups a hand against his cheek. “I thought I would never feel anything again. Anger, sadness, happiness, love. They were abstract concepts to me. Unnecessary. And then my uncle brought me here, and I met you. You were unlike any person I had ever met. I wanted to be your friend. I don’t think I understood, then, how important you would be to me, but as time passed I knew. You are _necessary_ , Will. An element all your own, like water and air, and just as vital.”

“I never used to believe you when you said things like this,” Will says, feeling his lips curve into a smile, and Hannibal grins.

“Cheeky boy,” he murmurs, and then his gaze turns molten. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to convince you?”

And then Hannibal is kissing him again, trailing his fingers down Will’s abdomen to where his cock is waiting for attention. And then he is following his fingers with his lips, and he is moving down Will’s body like a tide. And then Will is tilting his head back against the wide bed as his body is pulled away from shore, and Hannibal is swallowing him down like a sea.

Hours later, his body sated and tingling with a pleasant soreness, Will rises from the bed and stands. The sky has been clear for hours now, and Will opens the window to let in a cool breeze. He turns back to the bed and he studies the sight of Hannibal sleeping in the moonlight. His body is illuminated in soft, silver light, and Will feels his breath catch in his chest. Hannibal is radiant like this. Hannibal is ethereal, every inch the prince Will always imagined him to be. He is so beautiful that Will can hardly breathe, and for a moment Will finds himself frozen, and the old fear returns. For a moment Hannibal is gone, and the sleeping creature on the bed really is a Prince, far off and distant, sublime and untouchable. Will feels his stomach churn, feels his heartbeat stutter in his chest. But then the Prince opens his eyes, and he sees Will staring at him from across the room, and he reaches out a long arm over the mattress.

“Come back to bed, Will,” he murmurs, and all at once, the Prince is gone. All at once, the Prince is Hannibal again, and the vision shatters.

Will feels his heartbeat even out, feels his fear dissipate into the air like fog, and he crosses the moonlit room and crawls back into the bed. Hannibal closes his long arms around him with a sleepy hum, settling back to sleep, and Will cannot stop smiling. He stares out at the moon through the window and thinks of his little cottage, dark and quiet in the distance. He thinks of the great glass doors, open now, never to be closed to him again. He thinks of the great gray house, no longer unknown to him, as much his home as Hannibal’s. And he thinks of this wide bed, where he will wake tomorrow with Hannibal beside him in the golden glow of morning, and he thinks it is like a boat on the sea.

He thinks that he has never been so happy. He thinks that he has never felt so safe.

And then he closes his eyes, and he allows himself to dream.

 

 

\---

 

 

August 1965

 

 

Will woke up the morning after Hannibal’s birthday caked with sand and twinging with a soreness that he hadn’t felt in years. He looked at his face in the mirror, pale and drawn and uncertain, and he left the Lecter estate before the sun rose. He took a cab to Foster’s Five and Dime and he greeted Molly’s father with a hastily-packed suitcase and a request to use their guest room. Molly’s father accepted him as if this were the most natural thing in the world, but Molly’s eyes weighed on him like stones.

“What about Hannibal?” she asked, and Will looked away.

“He said congratulations,” he said, and Molly pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Okay, Will,” she said. “Okay.”

The thing is, Will didn’t know what else to do. What had happened on that beach left him in a state of utter uncertainty. The fabric of his betrayal had been punctured, the threads of his anger were unraveling. Why had Hannibal come to find him? Why had he touched him like a man dying of thirst? Why had he said the things he’d said? Why had he been so insistent that Will tell him that he didn’t love him?

And, more to the point, why hadn’t Will been able to do it?

The only thing Will _knew_ was that he needed to get away from Hannibal: he needed to get outside the sphere of Hannibal’s influence, away from the world where the great glass doors held dominion. He needed time to live in his own world, the one he had made for himself, and to think about what he was going to do. And so he did. He helped Molly and her father at the store during the day, he ate dinner with the Foster family every evening, and every night he lay awake looking up into the darkness and he faced the undeniable reality that _this would never be enough._

Will longed for Hannibal; he ached for Hannibal in a way that sometimes made it hard to breathe. With every moment that passed, the betrayal and the anger that had cloaked him for two years like armor ripped further and further apart, until soon he was grasping at shreds of fabric that slipped through his fingers like gossamer.

Every time the bell rang above the door at Foster’s Five and Dime, Will would turn to the entrance with his heart in his throat, hoping to see Hannibal’s long figure sliding through the doors. But Hannibal never came, and the shape of Will’s disappointment carved itself like a brand into his chest. He studied that shape in his mind, ran his fingers over its curves and grooves and cut his skin on its sharp corners. He held the pain next to his heart like a token.

_What if I was wrong?_ he allowed himself to think one day, stacking boxes of Lux laundry soap in the backroom while Molly worked the register. _What if Murasaki was lying?_

And once Will allowed himself to ask the question, he found that he could think of little else. He went through the motions of his replacement life, laughing at Molly’s father’s jokes, complimenting Molly’s mother’s cooking, squeezing Molly’s hand beneath the dinner table, but his mind was somewhere far away, sorting through the visions in his memory. While Molly and her mother planned flower arrangements and catering and picked out a dress, while Molly’s father organized account books and planned for his retirement, Will studied scenes he had tucked away behind glass in his mind.

He felt like the curator of his own museum: each memory a scene, each scene a painting, and he tried to look at them with new eyes, as if learning how to see. Some of the paintings were well over a decade old, with cracks in their surface that Will skimmed with gentle fingers, and others were so fresh that Will could still smell the oil in the air. Will studied them all, his face held close against their surface, and he tried to look past the things he thought he knew.

One day he found himself staring rapt at a painting of his father in 1948, telling him, in no uncertain terms, that Hannibal would leave him when he got the chance. But next he found a painting of Hannibal in 1959, sitting on a moonlit beach near the end of summer saying, “I would stay here with you forever, Will, if I could.”

He found a painting of himself as a boy in 1950, peeking through the great glass doors into the luxury of the house and thinking that _that_ was the world where Hannibal belonged, that _that_ was where Hannibal would always choose to be. But the next painting was of Hannibal in 1962, sprawled on the tiny mattress in Will’s little cottage with his limbs loose and his face flushed with a smile of pure contentment. “My uncle won’t wake for several hours,” he whispered, “so let me stay just a little longer. Please, Will, let me stay.”

He found a painting of himself in 1952, still so young, still so small, sweating in the sunlight as he scrubbed the deck of the _Primavera_ , while in the distance Hannibal and Robertus drank iced tea on the patio. But then the next painting was of Hannibal in 1954, studying Will’s blistered palms with a creased brow, rubbing ointment on the reddened skin and murmuring, “How many times must I tell you, Will: wait for me. Wait for me next time, and I will help you.”

And then he found himself beneath a painting of Hannibal’s birthday, so fresh the colors still gleamed against the surface. It was Hannibal on the patio, dancing with a beautiful stranger in a red dress. The sight of it made Will’s stomach churn, made jealousy and heartache unfurl together in his chest and crawl up his throat like a vine, and he began to turn away. But then he caught himself. He turned back to the painting, he forced himself to look again, and he saw that Hannibal’s eyes weren’t on the beautiful stranger at all. He saw that Hannibal’s eyes were facing outward, out past the edge of the canvas, meeting Will’s gaze in the gallery of memory as if transcending time and distance.  

And then one day, Will found himself in a new wing of the museum. It was mostly empty, he saw, simply room upon room of blank canvas and dark walls. This was his future, he realized, and all this empty canvas would be filled with scenes from his life without Hannibal. And as he stared up at the cavernous emptiness, as he considered filling it with his replacement life, he could not bear it anymore. His time in the gallery of memory had taught him to look at things differently, had taught him to look at _Hannibal_ differently, and he knew the time had come for him to tear himself away from the past and return again to the present. And so that night he borrowed Molly’s father’s bike, and he rode away to the Lecter estate under cover of darkness.

Will thought his absence would be overlooked that night, but he was wrong. For someone watched him go through the kitchen window, someone watched him fade into the distance through paisley-printed curtains and she asked herself a question. For while Will had been traversing his gallery of memory, searching for clues to the questions that plagued him, Molly had been wrestling with an an inner turmoil of her own.

Molly knew the truth about what was happening between Hannibal and Will. She had suspected it all along. She had suspected it from the strange look on Will’s face when he talked about Hannibal, from the way Will spoke Hannibal’s name is if afraid he might take it in vain. She had suspected it from the way Will picked at the label of his beer bottle when he said Hannibal had come back, his finger relentless in their movement until the label lay in shreds on the floor. She had suspected it from the way Will’s lovemaking changed, from the way he kept his eyes closed when he touched her as though imagining she were someone else.

She had suspected it, but she had not known it to be a certainty until Independence Day. For Hannibal had taken her hand across her family’s blanket with a smile, but his eyes had gleamed like he wished to stop her heart with his gaze. And she had seen the way Will’s demeanor changed when he saw Hannibal, saw how easily she was forgotten next to that haughty, golden bastard. She had seen the way Hannibal’s long body seemed to gravitate towards Will like a magnet seeking its opposite pole, had seen how Hannibal posed himself so prettily against the fireworks while Will stared. She had seen how Hannibal made himself the center of attention, forcing Will to look at him, and she had heard the way his voice had softened when he spoke to Will, as if beseeching him to come back to him. And in that moment, she understood.

Hannibal viewed her as competition, as an adversary in his fight for Will’s love. And he was right. She _was_ his competition; and, unfortunately for him, she was no great fan of losing. So she put her hand on Will, and she told Hannibal she would look after him instead, and she watched a black light flash in Hannibal’s eyes like the glint of sunlight on an approaching train.

_Very well,_ he seemed to say. _I accept your challenge._

For that was what it was. Molly had no problem with the fact that her adversary was a man, or that her fiancé could be attracted to both men and women. Her only concern was that her relationship with Will was threatened, and that she very well might lose him. She was under no delusions about Will’s true feelings: she knew he was in love with Hannibal, she knew he would return to Hannibal if he could. But she also knew that, for reasons unbeknownst to her, a rift had been gouged between the two men, and she did everything in her power to exploit it.  She took every opportunity she had to point out Hannibal’s various faults: his selfishness, his haughtiness, his cruel and exploitative behavior as Will’s employer. She took every opportunity she had to touch Will, to exploit an advantage in battle that she knew her adversary did not have the benefit of using. She visited Will in his cabin every night that she was able, using her body and her hands to distract him from the sounds of the parties in the distance, to pull him out of Hannibal’s orbit and back into her own. And then when Will proposed to her, when he told her that he wanted to make a life with her, her heart had soared: not just with love for him, but with the scorching, blissful heat of victory.

And then weeks passed by without interference, and she told herself the war was won. She told herself she was secure in her victory, that she could focus her attentions on the wedding, on finding a place to live, on learning how to manage the business in her father’s absence. But then two weeks before the ceremony, Will arrived at the store with a hickey on his neck and a hastily-packed suitcase, and Molly knew she had not won at all. She had ceased with offensive maneuvers for weeks, but Hannibal had still been fighting. She was so angry that she wanted to scream. But she didn’t scream. Instead, she simply said, “Okay, Will. Okay,” and she went on about her day.

But in her mind, she seethed.

She knew Will’s heart had not changed; that was incontrovertible fact. But there were other incontrovertible facts at play as well. Like the fact that Molly loved Will. Like the fact that Molly had admired Will since she was 15. Like the fact that Molly had spent her adolescent years watching Will across classrooms as he answered every question ever put to him correctly, as he spurned the company of people she didn’t like either, as he remained oblivious to the amorous gazes that were so often turned his way. Like the fact that Molly had looked at him for years, and wanted. Like the fact that, when Will walked into her father’s store that day in 1964, she had felt like the luckiest girl in the whole world.

And, at the end of the day, _Will_ had proposed to _her_. It was _his_ decision they should get married in the first place. And maybe it made her as asshole, but she felt like Will _owed_ it to her now. She had slept by his side for over a year, had hacked away at the walls he’d built around himself, had spent countless hours trying to get close to him long after Hannibal abandoned him and took off to parts unknown. What right did Hannibal have to swoop back in and take him away? What did it matter if Will would be unhappy? _Will_ proposed to _her_. He made her a _promise_. What right did he have to break it?

And then one afternoon, a week before the wedding, a man came to the store carrying a crystal vase filled to bursting with white hyacinths, and he told Molly they were a gift from Hannibal Lecter. There was an envelope taped to the vase with Molly’s name written in sprawling cursive, and Molly’s fingers hovered over it for several moments as she grappled with what to do. Would she acknowledge her opponent’s attempt at parley? Would she engage her adversary in his attempts at a ceasefire?

After several moments she made her decision, and she plucked the letter from the vase and burned it without fanfare near the dumpsters behind the store. That being done, the spirit of war rekindled in her chest, she went back inside, ready to throw the hyacinths and the glinting crystal into the dumpster and leave this interlude behind her. But then she saw her mother had found the bouquet, that her mother was touching the hyacinths with gentle fingers and calling out her name.

“Molly,” she said, “have you seen these beautiful flowers? There’s a card here, it looks like they’re from Hannibal Lecter.” And her mother handed her the card, and Molly could not stop herself from reading it.

_Dear Miss Foster_ , it said, in the same sprawling cursive as her name on the envelope, _Congratulations on your pending nuptials. Sincerely, Hannibal Lecter._

Molly felt her stomach coil with rage, and she resisted the urge to rip the card to shreds.

_Pending_ , he had the gall to write. _Pending_. And then she heard her mother speak.

“Hyacinths are so beautiful,” she said, “but not really appropriate, given the circumstances.” And Molly grit her teeth.

“Why’s that, Mom?” she asked, and her mother hummed.

“When I worked for a florist in high school, he told me hyacinths are named after the Greek legend of Hyacinth, a beautiful young man that Zephyrus and Apollo were both in love with. In the end, Zephyrus got so jealous he killed Hyacinth rather than let him be with Apollo. They say that when Hyacinth’s blood hit the grass, it grew into the first hyacinth.”

Molly felt her fingers clench, felt the smooth cardstock crumple beneath her grip.

_That_ asshole, she thought, _that complete and utter_ asshole _._

For Hannibal had found a way to get his point across, even without the letter. Almost as if he had expected her to burn it.

“Like I said, hardly appropriate for a wedding,” her mother said with a laugh, “but then again, Hannibal is a man. He probably doesn’t know any better. He probably just let himself get upsold by the florist. Hyacinths are very expensive, you know. Anyway,” she said, and she turned to Molly with a smile, “I’d like to take them home, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure,” Molly said through gritted teeth, “sure.”

And so the hyacinths sat on the dining room table for days, and every time that Molly looked at them she was forced to confront the charge levelled at her feet. Was allowing Will to marry her the same as killing him? Was she willing to give him up, even though that meant that Hannibal would win? She grappled with these questions for days, until one night she watched Will take her father’s bike and disappear into the darkness, and she asked herself: _What am I going to do?_ And all at once, she knew the answer.

But Will knew nothing of Molly’s turmoil when he rode to the Lecter estate that night. All he knew was that he had to see Hannibal; that the desire to see Hannibal’s face had surpassed the realm of _want_ and been reborn as a _need_. But when he came upon the great gray house he found that it was empty, unlit and closed up like a tomb. There were no partygoers on the beach, no laughing strangers on the patio, no Hannibal slipping away from the crowd to find Will in his solitude. Will peered in through the great glass doors and saw no figures moving beyond the glass, only the lonely shadows of furniture. There was nothing in the great gray house but stillness and silence.

_Did Hannibal leave?_ Will wondered, and his heart leapt into his throat. But then he remembered the gallery of memory, and he looked again. He looked at the vast, empty house; looked at the sprawling expanse of silent rooms, the absence of life and warmth, the absence of memory, and, suddenly, Will knew where Hannibal had gone. He turned his back on the great glass doors and he made his way across the Lecter estate on silent feet, and when he drew close to his little cottage he saw that it was lit up like a beacon. He stayed hidden in the shadows as he approached, and he peered in through the windows to find Hannibal sitting in the kitchen, bent over the chipped vinyl table where they had spent so many nights in conversation. He watched as Hannibal’s hand moved across the page beneath him, watched as his brows creased in concentration, and Will saw the story being told.   

_Hannibal has been living here since I left,_ he knew. _Hannibal would rather be here where I was, where we were together, than in his uncle’s house._

And, suddenly, it was as if a veil had been lifted from Will’s eyes. It was as if the last threads of his anger, the last threads of his betrayal, were torn away from him at last, and he looked at Hannibal with clear eyes. He looked at Hannibal and _saw_ him.

He saw that Hannibal looked tired, that there were dark smudges on his face and that his eyes were swollen and pink. He saw that Hannibal was no longer bothering with debauchery and exhibitionism, now that Will was not there to see the performance. He saw that Hannibal looked lonely, that even this tiny cottage seemed too big for him without Will by his side. He saw that on the surface of Hannibal’s paper was a drawing of Will himself, sitting on a blanket and holding a soda bottle with fireworks in the distance.

He saw that Hannibal was not the man Murasaki had described to him, that he was not the man who viewed Will’s love as disposable. He saw that Hannibal was as reliant on him for happiness as he was reliant on Hannibal.

And then Will looked down at his hands in the darkness, and he saw the web he had woven around himself. He saw the web that was so tangled and knotted and coiled that he didn’t know how to escape it. For how could he abandon Molly, now, after he had proposed to her? How could he break off their engagement, when he had been the one to suggest it in the first place?

Will crept away from the cottage on soundless feet, and he rode Molly’s father’s bike back to town with his heart in his throat.

_What am I going to do?_ He wondered. _What am I going to do?_

It was well after midnight by the time he returned to the Fosters’ house, but Will knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He didn’t even try. Instead, he made his way to the backyard, and he sat on the back steps and listened to the chirruping hum of crickets and the occasional call of nightbirds, the grinding churn of street lamps and insects fluttering in their thrall. Hours passed, and he had no idea what time it was when the back door opened and Molly settled down by his side in the darkness.

“We’re not getting married, are we Will?” she asked, and Will felt his face crease and his eyes go wide.

“Molly-” he said, but Molly cut him off.

“You had a hickey when you showed up at the store last week,” she told him, and Will felt his face flush. “Did you know that, Will?” she asked. “I sure didn’t put it there. And you said Hannibal said ‘congratulations.’ Good one.”

Will felt his mouth open, felt his lips try to form an excuse, but no words came out. _Hannibal probably did it on purpose,_ he thought.

“How long have you known?” he whispered, and Molly shrugged.

“I’ve been suspicious pretty much since I met you,” she said. “It got worse when Hannibal came back, but I think I _really_ knew on July Fourth. You’re not subtle, you know, and neither is he. You guys should be more careful about that. I know Hannibal has a lot of money, but there are still people who would try to hurt you if they knew.” Will let out a long breath.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he said. He didn’t know what else to do. Molly sighed.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” she asked, and Will pressed his lips together.

“I don’t know,” he told her, and she scoffed.

“Well thank God I did it for you then, huh?” she asked in a bitter tone, and Will bit his lip.

“I didn’t mean for it to be this way,” he said. “I really wanted to get over him. I thought I had to. But I was wrong.”

“Yeah, well, best laid plans of mice and men,” Molly said, and she wiped tears from her eyes. “I… I’m not going to say it’s fine, Will, because it’s not, but if you don’t love me, if you’re in love with someone else, we shouldn’t be getting married. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us.” She drew in a long breath. “I was ready to marry you anyway, but then I watched you ride away tonight, and I knew where you were going. I knew you were going to Hannibal’s place. And I sat here and wondered: ‘Is he going to fuck him again? Is he going to come back to me smelling like somebody else and acting like nothing happened, _again_?’”

Will felt his face flush, felt his face twist as Molly continued. “And then I asked myself: could I do this _every_ day? _Every_ night? And I realized the answer is no.” She stared out into the darkness and her brows creased, and she bit her lip. “Our marriage wouldn’t just have killed you,” she said quietly, “it would have killed me too.”

Will looked down at his hands where they had curled into fists in his lap. “I’m sorry, Molly,” he said again, and Molly hummed.

“It’s my fault too, Will,” she murmured. “I knew what was going on, and I played the game anyway. I didn’t want to lose to _Hannibal Lecter_ , of all people. I should have thrown in the towel a long time ago, but I didn’t. And so, here we are.”

“What do you want to do?” Will asked, thinking that he owed her this much, and she pressed her lips together.

“Let me have the ceremony,” she said. “Let me put on the dress and walk down the aisle and see my friends and family. Let them think I’m the girl who ran out of her own wedding, not the girl that got left at the altar. Just, hold off on going back to him ‘til after I’ve ended things on my own terms. Can you do that for me, Will?” she asked, and Will nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I can do that.”

And so they sat together on the back steps, side-by-side until the sun rose, and as the hours passed Will felt a strange fluttering his chest, a flurry in his stomach and a lightness in his head. It wasn’t until hours later, when he was alone in the backroom unpacking soda bottles and thinking about leaving his would-be wedding chapel and going home with Hannibal, that he understood what the strange feeling was.

He was _happy,_ he realized. Truly, purely _happy_ , for the first time in years.  

 

 

\---

 

 

September 1965

 

 

The little chapel is filled with people, the sounds of murmured conversation and hushed laughter echoing against the rafters and moving over Will like a breeze. Sunlight filters in through the beveled windows, bathing the interior and its occupants in the warm glow of an autumn afternoon. It is a modest chapel, with few embellishments beyond white-washed walls and a wooden cross behind the altar, but it is so picturesque in its golden haze that Will thinks it is like something from a dream.

He had asked Molly if they could hold the ceremony here, in this small, unassuming chapel, because he thought he would not look out of place in it. He had thought he would not feel so much like a misshapen piece in the puzzle of his own life if he got married somewhere that was like him: nondescript and unremarkable, obscure and forgettable. It is only now, after two weeks of confusion and uncertainty, after two weeks of endless days and sleepless nights spent traversing the halls of his own memory, that he is able to see the beauty that can come from such simplicity. It is only now that he is able to understand, with all the quiet certainty of a white church bathed in sunlight on a fall afternoon, that there is beauty in the world which needs no adornment beyond the right eyes to see it. It matters less what something is, Will has come to understand, than who is doing the looking. Less what is looked upon, and more on what is _seen_.

To some, the chapel may be plain, modest, and poor. But Will has learned to look past what is immediately visible. To him, the little church is sublime. It is the place where he will wipe his slate clean, where he will leave his past behind him once and for all. It is the place where he will rid himself of the fear and uncertainty, the bitterness and doubt that has plagued him since he was a little boy. It is the place where his life will begin anew. And so he looks past the unassuming facade, the plain white walls and the rough-hewn pews, and he sees the makings of his own earthly paradise. To him, this little church is the most beautiful place in the world.

Hannibal is in the front row of this autumnal chapel, sitting in a pew that would have been reserved for Will’s family, had Will asked that it be so. He had slipped in through the double doors with all the grace of a frescoed angel, and Will had felt his presence across the room like a caress on his skin. It had felt like a blessing and a baptism all in one, a vindication after years of doubt, a glass of cold lemonade on a hot summer day. His eyes had sought Will’s through the crowd like a ship seeks a lighthouse in the darkness, and Will could feel that gaze down to his very bones. He felt as though he were being illuminated, as though the rough oak wall behind him were transformed into the panel of a lush Italian cathedral, as though the rough-worn planks of pine beneath his feet had turned to marble. He felt as though he himself had become a painted martyr, forever reaching and untouchable from his place high up on the wall.

Will had often felt this way when Hannibal looked at him, before. Before Murasaki sailed into his life on a fell breeze, before her words seemed to echo the truth of his very worst fears. Before he was overcome by his sense of betrayal, before he banished Hannibal from his life with the wrath of a vengeful angel.

He had felt as though what Hannibal saw when he looked at him was not an awkward, snappish young man, but a masterpiece beyond measure.

“ _You are so beautiful_ ,” Hannibal would say, “ _like a vision from the Old Masters. Like Botticelli breathed life into your fingertips. Like Michelangelo himself freed you from your stone_.”

Will had never let himself believe, before. But now, for the first time in his life, he does. He lets himself imagine what Hannibal might see in him where he stands against the white chapel wall in a shaft of golden sunlight: not bone and skin, but grace, unutterably divine. It is as thrilling as it is terrifying.

Hannibal is wearing a suit, his long legs folded and his back straight in the pew, and anyone who did not know him well would think that he is perfectly at ease. But Will knows better. Will has learned not to focus on what is being looked at, but what is being seen. And Will can see the shadows beneath Hannibal’s eyes, the sickly pallor of his skin. Will can see the way his hands are trembling where they’re folded in his lap, the way one foot is tapping infinitesimally against the pinewood floor. Will can see past the facade that Hannibal is presenting to the world around him, now, and he is amazed how blind he had been to it before. He wonders whether Hannibal has looked this way all summer, and he was simply too angry to notice. He wonders whether Hannibal has looked this way since 1948, but Will could not see it through the fear and doubt that clouded his eyes like a veil.

A frisson of energy travels through the crowd, and a hush falls over the pews like static. The gathered faces turn as one towards the altar, and the chapel is abruptly filled with the sound of people shifting in their seats, agreeing through some unspoken accord that it is time to settle in for the ceremony. Will still feels as though he is Hannibal’s painted martyr, observing these events from his fresco high up on the wall; he feels as though he will be suspended in this moment for the rest of his days, staring at Hannibal in the front row and waiting for the ceremony to begin. He watches Hannibal’s broad shoulders tense, watches as his hands turn to fists against his thighs and the program is crushed by his long fingers, and then Will breaks free from his painted scene, and he takes his place by the altar.

Will and Molly agreed to a sparse wedding, so there are no groomsmen or bridesmaids, no best man or maid of honor to lengthen the ceremony and give Will more time to prepare for what is about to happen. There is only the sound of the piano, ringing out in the procession, and the sight of Molly in a white dress on her father’s arm. But Will is not looking at Molly. He is looking at Hannibal, who has met his gaze and is holding it as the crowd around him turns to watch the bride as she passes, murmuring pleasure and praise. Will allows himself to fall a bit into Hannibal’s eyes, warm cinnamon and golden butter, and he sees a question there, a taunt and a rebuke and, beneath it all, a desperate, aching longing, only visible to those who know how to look for it. To those who know how to see it.

Will tries to commit the image to memory: Hannibal leaning slightly forward in the church pew, his features cast in golden sunlight; his hair immaculate, but his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap; his face devoid of expression, but his eyes gleaming with unspoken words. He is wearing a bespoke suit and shining leather shoes, both of which are ostentatious, both of which are far too refined for this simple oak and pine chapel, yet Hannibal fits as naturally here in Will’s humble church as Will imagines he fits in Hannibal’s Italian fresco, a painted angel in a hand-me-down jacket and a pair of well-worn loafers. Will feels his lips turn up slightly at the thought, and Hannibal’s face tightens. His brows crease, and he grips his fingers against the edge of the pew. His lips are silent, but his eyes are shouting.

“ _Will_ ,” he mouths, one last act of desperation before the fall, but then Molly and her father have come upon the altar, and it’s time for the ceremony to begin. Will takes Molly’s arm and turns his back on Hannibal, and he tries to prepare himself for what the next few minutes will bring.

He meets Molly’s eyes as they take their place at the altar, and he spares a glance down at her bouquet. It was supposed to be red roses, but Molly is carrying white hyacinths instead, decidedly unseasonal and most assuredly a last minute change. She shrugs when he meets her gaze. _It’s hardly the most dramatic change of plans for our wedding_ , her eyes seems to say, and Will feels himself grin. He turns his attention to the officiant who is droning out his opening remarks, and he reminds himself to breathe.

He barely hears the words the officiant is speaking, for he feels as though his mind has taken leave of his body. He suspects Molly is much the same, as she is shifting on her feet and picking at the stems of her hyacinths with restless fingers. Will draws in a deep breath and counts to three in his head, reminding himself that this will all be over soon, that soon this will all be nothing but a memory. He wonders what Hannibal is thinking in this moment, and he wishes he could turn his face to the pews and look. He wonders what other sorts of heartbreaks and euphorias this altar has borne witness to, and he thinks that in the grand scheme of things, his own story will be of minor importance. And he thinks that that’s okay.

At last, the officiant reaches the end of his remarks, and he is looking at Molly and Will with all the solemn gravity of a man who has done this many times before, and who will do this many times again.

“Do you, William Graham, take Molly Foster to be your lawfully wedded wife?” he asks, and Will nods.

“I do,” he says, and if his voice cracks, if it shakes slightly as the vow passes his lips, he hopes that no-one notices.

“And do you, Molly Foster, take William Graham to be your lawfully wedded husband?” he asks, and Will feels his heart thunder in his chest.

Molly is utterly still beside him, and Will listens as she breathes. Several moments pass in silence, and a tension settles over the crowd like a fog. Will feels his heart crawl up his throat, wondering if she’s changed her mind, wondering if she’s decided not to go through with their plan, but then he feels her stiffen, feels her straighten to her full height and steel her shoulders.

“Did you hear me, my dear?” the officiant asks gently, in a manner that suggests he’s well-accustomed to nervous brides. “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” he says again, and Molly clears her throat.

“I don’t,” she says loudly, and Will hears a collective gasp from the crowd. He feels as if a weight over his heart has suddenly been lifted, and he can’t suppress a grin. The officiant blinks, and he stares at Molly as though she has spoken in tongues.

“Come again, my dear?” he says, but Molly doesn’t answer him. Instead she turns to Will, with a smile on her face and her eyes wet with tears.

“Goodbye, Will,” she says, and she presses a kiss to Will’s cheek. Their eyes meet, and Will gives her one last smile.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, low enough so that only she can hear, and then she nods and turns away.

The crowd has nearly reached a fever pitch, and no-one seems to know whether they should stay in their seat or rise, whether they should bite their tongues or call out in consternation. When Will spares a glance over his shoulder he finds that only Hannibal sits frozen, his fingers tight around his thighs, his entire body poised as if to spring. He is staring at Will with disbelieving eyes, and Will can’t help but smile as he looks away.

Will can hear the sound of Molly’s quiet laughter as she kicks off her high heels, and he watches her toss the hyacinths to the crowd. She casts one last look over her shoulder at Will, one last wet-eyed goodbye, and then she gathers the fabric of her skirt in her hands and she runs. Will watches the flowing white fabric of her dress as she courses down the aisle, listens as the gathered crowd finally erupts into a cacophony of shouts and confusion. He listens as the officiant sputters and squawks behind him, as Molly’s parents rush out of the chapel after their daughter, shouting her name. He listens to the uproar and the commotion for several moments, and then he closes his eyes. He lifts his face to the sunlight pouring in through the open windows, and he listens for the sound of the breeze moving through the trees outside. The chaos falls away, all the noise and commotion become nothing more than a quiet murmur in the background, and suddenly he is alone in the little chapel. Alone except for one, in a solitude shaped for two.

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice says, echoing through the church, and Will opens his eyes to find that Hannibal is standing before him, less than an arm’s length away and holding the hyacinths. Will sees that the small white chapel has been replaced by a grand Italian cathedral, and that overhead two frescoed angels are watching them with curious expressions. He sees that Hannibal is staring at him with eyes like windows, his expression uncertain and his fingers dancing at his sides. People are moving around them, but Will barely sees them: they are just smears of color, muted pigment in the background. “May I take you home, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will smiles.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

 

 

 

 


	6. Epilogue: Zephyrus and Apollo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! First, thanks SO MUCH for all of your feedback on the last chapter! Second, I'm sorry it took me longer than expected to get this epilogue to you, and I hope you all enjoy it. I always wondered what a meeting between Hannibal and Molly would have looked like in the TV canon (without Hannibal using a serial killer as mediator that is, ahaaaaa), and I had that thought in mind when I wrote this epilogue. It'll give you a reunion between Will's rivals (LOL), a little snapshot of what Hanni and Will have been up to in the years since the drama fest of 1965, and, last but not least, it will give you a little bit of Hannibal POV (point-of-view or petty-of-view, either works here). 
> 
> Once again, thanks so much for reading and for providing feedback on this story. It means so much to me, and you are all wonderful!

 

Epilogue: Zephyrus and Apollo

 

 

May 1973

 

The bell above the door chimes out in greeting when Hannibal steps over the threshold and into the interior of Foster’s Five and Dime. The store appears to be empty, and he scans the aisles with a searching gaze. He has come here with one goal in mind, and he does not mean to leave until that goal has been accomplished.

He keeps his eyes peeled for the figure of a brown-haired woman as he makes his way through the store, his movements smooth and unhurried. The static hum of music is audible from some unseen location, but otherwise the store is quiet. He makes his way past shelves stocked with boxes of cereal, condensed milk, dish soap, and countless other nondescript domestic goods without paying great attention to any, until he finds himself in the men’s grooming aisle, and he feels himself stop short. He remembers a conversation over breakfast, when Will mentioned he was nearly out of aftershave, and that he would need to go to town to buy more. Several bottles of Will’s chosen brand are neatly stacked within easy reach, and Hannibal studies them wordlessly. After several moments, he sighs the sigh of the long-suffering, and he plucks a bottle of the detestable substance from the shelf.

He resumes his steady perusal of the aisles until he hears a sound, and his attention is drawn to the door swinging open at the back of the store. Hannibal turns, and he is met with the sight of the woman Will almost married. It’s the first time he’s seen her since she absconded from what would have been her wedding chapel, and Hannibal finds the sight of her is still enough to make his shoulders tense, his lips curl and his fingers clench. The woman is passing through the door, but she freezes when she sees him, and she stares at him with raised eyebrows. Several moments pass in which they study one another, until Hannibal gives her a slight nod.

“Good afternoon,” he says, breaking the silence, and she lets out an unattractive scoff.

“ _Hi_ ,” she says, readjusting the cardboard box in her arms. “So I guess you’re back, huh? First time in all these years?”

Hannibal tilts his head. _I should think that would be obvious_ , he thinks, but he does not say it. That would be rude, and Hannibal is never rude.

“Indeed,” he says instead, and The-Woman-Will-Almost-Married swallows loudly and licks her lips.

“Are you here to buy something, or just to scope me out?” she asks, and Hannibal allows the veneer of a smile to smooth across his face.

“I would like to make a purchase,” he says, and she presses her lips together.

“Great,” she says, in a tone that makes no attempt to lend sincerity to the statement. “Just give me a second,” she says, and she clears her throat. “Michael!” she shouts, and Hannibal feels his lips purse at the volume. “Michael!” she calls again, and after a moment the door swings open again, this time held ajar by a little boy.

“What, Mom?” he asks, and Hannibal finds his eyes drawn to the figure.

 _In another world_ , he thinks, _that would have been Will’s son, walking through that door_.

He feels an altogether unpleasant sensation in his gut at the thought, and he cannot help but imagine it: a boy with his mother’s round face and graceless mouth, but with his father’s shining curls, with his father’s wide blue eyes. Hannibal swallows around the acrid taste in his mouth, and his fingers clench reflexively as he watches The-Woman-Will-Almost-Married gently pass the box to her son.  

“Can you go put these marshmallows where they go on the shelf, sweetheart?” the woman asks, and the boy nods.

“Yes, Mom,” he says in a sing-song face, and then he shuffles away, his small form quickly obscured by shelving. Hannibal is glad to see him go.

 _This is not some other world_ , he reminds himself. _It is this one: where Will is mine, and mine alone._

The-Woman-Will-Almost-Married draws in a breath. “Let’s get this over with,” she says, and Hannibal trails behind her as they make their way to the register. He places the bottle of aftershave down wordlessly on the belt, and he watches with displeasure as a smile curves across her face.

“All this time and you still can’t get Will to use something other than dime-store aftershave, huh?” she asks, and Hannibal frowns. He does not like her tone, nor the intimacy implied by her familiarity with Will’s choice in aftershave.  

“I would never presume to influence Will in such matters,” he says.

(In truth, Hannibal had tried and failed to persuade Will to use a higher-quality brand of aftershave for years, but to little avail. He finally relented when he discovered that tossing bottles of cheap aftershave into the garbage only resulted in their reappearance hours later, as if by magic, and he decided that his energies were better expended elsewhere. Hannibal has learned to pick his battles and, in this particular instance, he has conceded defeat. And besides: like so many things to do with Will, the smell of the aftershave has had a strange effect on Hannibal. It has snaked its way into his consciousness, built itself a fort inside his mind and made itself beloved. In truth, he would be bereft were Will to change it after all these years. The same can be said of the dogs, of Buster and Maisy and Demeter, who Hannibal first saw as an unavoidable concession to Will’s pleading, but over time has grown unaccountably fond of. Such is the power of Will, that he can surprise even Hannibal. Such is the power of Will, that he can force Hannibal to learn new things about himself, even after all these years.)

“Speaking of Will… how is he?” the woman asks in a quiet tone, and Hannibal lets his eyes rest on the still-untouched aftershave.

“Will is doing very well, Miss Foster,” he says, and she clears her throat.

“Mrs. Auerbach,” she says, and Hannibal raises his eyebrows.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, although he knows perfectly well what she meant, and she squints her eyes as though studying him.

“I’m not ‘Miss Foster’ anymore,” she says. “In case you didn’t notice the ring, or the kid: I got married. My name’s Mrs. Auerbach.” Hannibal feigns a sudden burst of understanding.

“Ah, I see,” he says evenly. “In that case: congratulations.”

“Yeah,” she says, making no attempt to mask her sarcasm, “my second engagement went a lot better than my first. I wonder why.”

Hannibal clears his throat. At last they approach the heart of the matter, and the real reason for his visit.

“Would you have preferred Will and I stay away forever?” he asks, catching and holding her gaze. “That hardly seems reasonable.”

“You’re really not going to admit you had anything to do with it?” the woman asks. “Even after all these years?” Hannibal taps his fingers against his thigh. He does not want to talk about the past.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss Fos- excuse me, Mrs. Auerbach,” he says, and the woman raises an eyebrow.

“The flowers,” she says. “The hyacinths. Before my wedding. Don’t act like you don’t remember.” Hannibal licks his lips.

“I sent you those flowers as a sign of my well-wishes for a happy marriage,” he says, and the woman’s eyebrows crawl towards her hairline.

“You’re telling me you didn’t send me those flowers because you thought _I_ was Zephyrus, in that scenario?” she asks in a flat tone. “That _I_ was Zephyrus, and _you_ were Apollo? You’re really trying to say that wasn’t your intention?” Hannibal suppresses a sigh.

“Although I’m touched to hear you were so deeply moved by the flowers,” he says, “I think it’s best if we turn our attention away from the past, and focus on the present instead. Don’t you agree?”

The woman is shaking her head, pressing her palm against her mouth. “Unbelievable,” she says. “You are fucking unbelievable, even after all these years. I don’t even get a ‘thank you’ for willingly breaking off my own marriage?”

“Your speech is very colorful, Miss Fos- Mrs. Auerbach,” Hannibal observes. “I’m surprised you’re willing to use that kind of language where your son can hear you.” The woman is smiling now, her lips spread wide across her face.

“You are such an _asshole_!” she says, as though making an observation about the weather. “I’m telling you you were _right_ , that I _knew_ you were right, and that’s why I did what I did, and you’re still going to act like you have no idea what I’m talking about?” Hannibal looks down at the aftershave. He is growing impatient.

“Miss Fos- Mrs. Auerbach,” he says, “Will and I plan to stay here for the duration of the summer. In all likelihood, you will cross paths with Will at some point during our stay, and I came here to ensure that, when that happens, you won’t cause any… unpleasantness for him.” The-Woman-Will-Almost-Married stares with an expression that reminds Hannibal of a gutted fish, her eyes wide and her mouth open. He dismisses the image from his mind and continues. “And also to inform you that, if you _do_ cause Will any discomfort during our stay here, I will personally see to it that you regret it.”

“Oh my God,” the woman says, and she begins to laugh. “You are a complete, utter, unforgivable, stuck-up, piece-of-shit _asshole_!” she tells him, and Hannibal presses his lips together. He would be more than happy to share his opinion of _her_ , but that would be uncouth. As it stands, he simply flexes his fingers at his sides.

“Everyone is entitled to their opinion, Miss Fos- Mrs. Auerbach,” he says, and he allows his tone to grow pointed. “However, I’m happy Will doesn’t seem to share your sentiment.” The woman’s mouth twists, and she lets out a long breath.

“You’re right, he doesn’t,” she says, and she reaches at last for the aftershave. “Which, frankly, has always been… baffling to me. But, whatever. To address your concern: Will is always welcome in my store, or anywhere that I am. I will always be happy to see him, and he’ll get nothing but kindness from me.” The register dings as it pops open.

“Wonderful,” Hannibal says, “I’m glad we’re in agreement.” He waits until the woman has counted his change and closed the register before he speaks again. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” he says casually, “I would like to purchase two bags of ice, as well.” The woman presses her lips together and glowers at him.

“Sure thing,” she says, and the register pops open again with a clang.

“You know,” Hannibal says as she counts his change for the second time, “it was not only best for Will’s sake that your engagement ended. It was best for your own sake as well.” The woman lets out a scoff and closes the register with a slam.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” she asks. “Cause after Will dumped me I found someone else? Cause losing Will taught me how to tell when someone really loves me back? Cause I ended up with a wonderful husband and a perfect son? Is that what you’re saying?”

A small smile tugs at the edges of Hannibal’s mouth. In truth, that isn’t what he’d meant at all, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Indeed,” he says. “It was wonderful to see you again, Miss Fos- Mrs. Auerbach. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.” And then he turns away, his unpleasant errand finally ended, and he is nearly out the door before her voice rings out again.

“Hannibal,” she says, her tone much more gentle now, and Hannibal pauses. He does not know what he has ever done or said that would make her believe she is welcome to use his first name. He draws in a breath, his chest tight with dislike.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Tell Will I said hi, okay?” the woman says, and Hannibal nods in feigned acquiescence.

“Of course,” he tells her, and then he passes at last through the door.

(In truth, Hannibal has no intention of telling Will of her greeting. In truth, if Hannibal had his way, he would crack open Will’s skull and wipe every trace of that woman from his memory, towel away every last vestige of her face like an oil spill. Alas, such powers are beyond his dominion, so he must do his best with the power he has been given. If nothing else, he will ensure that Will remains ignorant this conversation ever occurred.)

Hannibal steps out into the gravel parking lot and lifts his face to the sun, reflecting on the strangeness of being back in this place after what nearly happened here so many years ago. In another world, this store would have been Will’s prison. In another world, that woman would have been Will’s wife. The thought makes Hannibal’s shoulders tense, his lips curl and his fingers clench. He needs to see Will, he decides, he needs to put his hands on Will’s skin and hear his name on Will’s lips. And so he gets in the car, and he drives back to the Lecter estate with the windows down. He removes his shoes and leaves them on the patio with the aftershave, and he makes his way to the beach on bare feet. As he draws nearer to the water he can hear the sound of Will’s laughter, and the thrumming beneath his skin is softened by Will’s nearness, by the reminder that Will is happy, and safe, and his.

When the beach comes into view Hannibal stops walking, still far enough away that Will does not notice him, and he treats himself to the sight before him. He watches as Will lopes like a dancer across the sand, pursued by three streaking bundles of fur, and he smiles. Already, that woman and her store seem exorcised to a different world. Such is Will’s effect on him.

Several minutes pass, and Hannibal takes in every detail of the vision before him: Will’s slim ankles caked with sand, his feet kicking up flurries of water, his curls whipped by the breeze into a state of reckless abandon. Will moves with effortless grace as the dogs weave around him in the waves, his every movement balletic, his every motion unaffected and perfect. Hannibal has seen this performance on countless shorelines in the years since 1965; he has countless wings of his mind palace devoted to just such a scene. He has seen Will dance on rocky bays in the Aegean, on secluded strands in the North Sea, on endless white waterfronts in the South Pacific. And yet today he finds himself no less moved by the sight of it than he was the first time he ever saw it, when Will spilled out of their sailboat in Palermo and streaked across the shoreline like a tide.

Will is a dancer, but he performs for no human judge. His audience is the afternoon sunlight, his partner is the open sea. Hannibal thinks that moments like this are akin to shining a flashlight into the depths of Will’s soul. He thinks that the human skin Will wears so beautifully is little more than a mask for what lies beneath it: the spirit of a nymph or a sprite, joyous, triumphant, and unbridled. He thinks that Will is a force of nature, an act of divinity, and once again he finds himself penitent in the face of Will’s staggering power.

Hannibal had known, even when he was a child, that other people failed to understand the value of Will. He had known that, when other people looked at Will, they could not see what Hannibal saw. And he wondered, sometimes, how that was possible, when it was so obvious to him that Will’s skin was the finest marble, that his lips were the rarest of blooms, that his eyes were the most precious of gems. He wondered how anyone could speak to Will without seeing what he saw: that Will’s heart held the wisdom of ages, that his hands held the strength of a benevolent god, that his mind contained multitudes.

Throughout his years of adolescence, Hannibal’s uncle, Lady Murasaki, and all their myriad acquaintances prattled endlessly about houses and boats, investments and artworks, automobiles and islands, as if these trappings of wealth could add meaning or value to their miserable shells of a life. But Hannibal’s eyes were clear. He knew the true meaning of worth. And while he enjoyed the luxuries his life afforded, had a fondness for the finer things and an appreciation for beauty and excellence wherever it could be found, he had learned firsthand the dangers that lurk when prioritizing material wealth over worth. His decision to wait for his inheritance had nearly lost him Will, and there are still nights when Hannibal wakes in the darkness feeling like a hand is clasped around his throat, and he cannot breathe until he has assured himself that Will is there in bed beside him.

Hannibal has always known that Will’s value is beyond quantifiable measure, but it took the summer of 1965 to make him understand just how much the loss of Will would cost him. It took the summer of 1965 to make him understand that, when it comes to Will, there is no price he will not pay to keep him. Hannibal learned his lesson, and he has not forgotten it.

Apollo lost his Hyacinth, but the same will not be said of Hannibal and Will. Not to Zephyrus, nor to any other force. Hannibal will make sure of it.

There is shout of laughter from the beach, and Hannibal smiles.

Some time later, he will call to Will, and Will will cease in his waltz with the waves. Some time later, Hannibal will reach out his arms to Will, and Will will come to him smelling like sweat and salt water and the sweet, indefinable essence of himself that makes Hannibal’s heart stutter in his chest. Some time later, Hannibal will make dinner while Will gives the dogs a bath, and they will sit down together and enjoy their meal side-by-side. And then, once the dogs are settled, and all is quiet except for the sound of the waves in the distance, Hannibal will take Will to bed, and he will open him slowly with his mouth and his fingers, and when Will is so dumbstruck with pleasure that his face is flushed and his eyes are glazed, Hannibal will press inside of him and tell him, again and again, how much he is loved. And when they are both exhausted and lethargic, Hannibal will gather Will in his arms and they will fall asleep that way, arms and legs intertwined and hearts beating as one.

But for now, Hannibal will stay exactly where he is, and he will watch his beloved dance with the sea.

 _All is as it should be in the world_ , he thinks, _and it is a beautiful day_.

 

END

 

 

 

 


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